


What do we want?

by neioo



Series: Are we humans? [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dehumanization, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gore, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prequel that can be read on its own, Slow Build, Torture, Violence, World War II, warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 67,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neioo/pseuds/neioo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nation Avatars. They are immortal beings representative of a country who have clear-cut roles in society. The turn of the century, however, brings an ever-evolving political landscape that they must learn to navigate. Just as they think they are mastering their new way of life, though, the Second World War begins, and everything crumbles. The Axis Powers want nothing more than to use them for experiments. The Allied Powers see their lives as expendable and meaningless. Some Nations are complacent. However, others aren't and will change the dynamic of everything by going against their country. Who are they? People? Nations? What do they want in life? Most can't fathom an answer to any of those questions.</p><p>(Historical!Hetalia that mostly takes place during the Second World War. This fic is a prequel to "Are we humans?" however it can be read on its own. Real life events will be followed. Human and country names are used. Many characters will be in the story, but only the most important are tagged.)</p><p>expected release date for paper copy: early july 2018</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Der Anfang

**Author's Note:**

> [editing progress](http://arewehumans.tumblr.com/progress)

_2. Dezember 1940_

It’s cold. It’s dark. Every step echoes, filling the hallway and making it unbearable to breathe.

Prussia is tense, and his head pounds as he focuses on his feet. He doesn’t dare look up as they walk for what feels like years.

_Clank. Clank._

“We’re almost there,” a voice, a Nazi, eventually announces in German.

“This is far underground,” a Japanese man replies in the same language, his accent thick.

“It’s for security reasons.”

Prussia feels like he’s going to vomit, and the stress of that causes him to give in and tear his gaze from his shoes. Germany and Austria are on either side of him while Japan, Romano, and Italy are trailing in the back, everyone in uniform, stiff and utterly emotionless.

“They’re in this room up ahead. The Führer is with your leaders, and he’ll greet you before the demonstration.”

Prussia doesn’t want to be in the same room as Hitler, Hirohito, or Mussolini.

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him.

_Could there have been a way out of all of this? Could I have done something?_

_No, I’m just a Nation. There’s nothing…_

He gave Spain and France that information, though—at the Olympics. But Spain is now stuck in his country under a fascist dictatorship, and France—

His country surrendered in June; Prussia hasn’t seen him since.

But he knows what they’re doing to him and all of the other Nations whose countries surrendered. It’s something he’s been trying to deny; something he’s hoping is actually just a nightmare.

Hitler’s aide opens the metal door.

Prussia’s hearing cuts out.

The room is dark and grimy and empty except for medical beds that—Hungary. She’s on one. Her head is shaved. She’s naked and chained up and surrounded by Poland, Denmark, and Norway, but Prussia barely registers them. He feels his vision blurring, sees Austria cover his mouth with his hand.

Someone is talking. They’re all in the room now, and someone is just _casually_ _talking_.

“The medical experiments we’ll perform will benefit humanity,” he says. “And these Nations from conquered countries will serve as—”

“Then why the hell is Elizabeta here when Hungary joined the Axis willingly?” Prussia spits out before he can even think.

It was the wrong thing to do.

All of the government officials’ heads snap in his direction, Germany _grabs_ him, and Hungary, she—she looks at him with such a dead expression.

“Who is this ‘Elizabeta?’” the man that spoke before says. “All I see is an abomination.”

Prussia sees red.

“He didn’t mean it,” Germany says smoothly, lying for him, being the teacher’s pet.

_Just like how you taught him._

_Just like how you raised him._

_He’s everything you’ve wanted to be and look what’s happening._

“No, I meant it,” Prussia snaps, feeling his presence grow.

Austria sends him a look of pure terror. Hungary somehow manages to look annoyed. Poland is sobbing, and Prussia doesn’t know when that start—

He’s slapped by one of the Nazi officials as Germany restrains him, and while that’s happening, Prussia catches wind of Romano and Italy. Italy is the one who has a blank expression. Romano looks like he’s about to break down.

Japan, meanwhile, is stiff and frozen.

Someone rips Prussia away from Germany. “You apologize to the Führer for speaking out of turn.”

He makes eye contact with Hitler and has to fight back the bile rising in the back of his throat.

“No.”

“Well, we wanted to use these Nations for a demonstration, but it looks like we have a new volunteer for today.”

Prussia opens his mouth.

He’s shot in the kneecaps.

His legs buckle. Someone cries out—maybe Denmark, maybe him.

“See how his eyes are turning red?” Prussia is kicked in the gut. “Nations do that when they’re frightened or angry. Disturbing, right?”

He’s manhandled onto one of the medical beds. He tries to resist, but someone shoots him in the leg, and it takes every bit of self-control to hold himself together in front of the others.

“See how the other Nations are flinching? That’s his presence. Nations use that to sense each other like animals. They can also use it as a means to overwhelm their opponent.”

A gag is stuffed into Prussia’s mouth as he’s restrained to the medical bed. He thrashes. Someone then rips his shirt off and injects something into his arm.

“See how we shot him in the knees and he’s no longer bleeding? These freaks have an incredible healing rate.”

Figures are looming over him, blocking out the light.

“They can speak any language, regenerate their limbs, are infertile and are born from nothing. Here, let me show you how fast one of these monster’s body parts can grow back.”

_No._

Whatever was injected into him has caused him to lose control over his body. He can’t move. He’s weak. He’s—

Someone grabs a clamp. Prussia tries to fight against the shackles holding him down. He makes eye contact with Austria, who looks horrified, and Italy is now scared, and Romano is fighting back tears, and Japan’s expression is still utterly fucking blank, and Germany—

He’s calm.

_I’ve taught you well._

_So I can too—I can also remain—_

The clamp yanks out his eye.

Prussia screams.

“Maybe this will teach you to stop acting out of line,” someone hisses into his ear.

He doesn’t have the capacity to think of a response because next, they chop off his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...........................hi
> 
> yo just a note, but there's going to be like, heavy usuk tones and I know some people don't like that so here's ur warning
> 
> if you're a new reader you can read this first without having read 'Are We Humans?'
> 
> the four main POV's will be Prussia, England, Russia, and Japan


	2. D-Day

_6 June 1944_

It’s 7:00.

The wind picks up, smashing waves into the boat. England forces himself to take a deep breath to try and hold off any feeling of seasickness. He’s used to traveling on the ocean, but _shit._

“I can see the coastline,” Wales mutters.

England squints. It’s still far away, so it’s hard to make out anything besides a blurry shoreline.

“Looks like we’ll be landing on time at 7:25,” Wales continues, looking nauseous.

Off in the distance, there’s the sound of gunshots. And in the sky, there are white contrails from various bomber planes and other paratrooper units—

Wales vomits off the side of the boat.

They’re not on their landing craft yet, but England suspects they’ll be transferring at any moment.

“Ew,” Scotland says from behind them.

Wales mutters something in Welsh, but England doesn’t catch it as he turns around. Scotland is pale—well, paler than usual—and Northern Ireland is practically clinging to his hip since he’s a head shorter than him.

“When are we transferring to the landing craft?” England asks, trying to fake an image of confidence.

Scotland has bags embedded under his eyes. He shakes Northern Ireland off of him. “I think Major General Douglas Graham is about to give the 50th Infantry Division their orders.”

“And what; we’re just supposed to _go with them_?” Wales spits, wiping his mouth and standing up straight. “They’ve already seen combat in three different places, have undergone extensive training, and we’re just supposed to _tag_ _along_ after only having been half-assed trained for a month—”

England tries to cut in. “Wales.”

“AND WHY THE FUCK IS NORTHERN IRELAND COMING? HE ONLY HAS THE PHYSICAL AGE OF A 15-YEAR-OLD!”

Northern Ireland looks like he’s about to cry. Scotland seems annoyed. England desperately tries to keep the peace. “Every—everything will go smoothly. We’ll take Gold Beach and meet up with the Canadians on Juno, then the Americans soon after. Everyone has been planning for this for a while. We can do this. We’ll take back France.”

Scotland pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wonder what happened to dear old Francis.”

England does not want to think about that right now under any circumstances.

And thankfully, he doesn’t have to.

“Get into your companies!” some Brigadier screams. “We’re boarding the landing craft!” 

* * *

 

The waves are jostling them back and forth.

The shoreline is getting closer, and England can see areas where the earlier aerial bombardment had wiped out much of the German defences.

He takes a deep breath, but suddenly his vision swims, and all he can see is France looking at him, seeming terrified as his officials yanked him away—

Scotland elbows his side. “I don’t need your goddamn presence expanding,” he hisses under his breath.

England swallows. Wales squirms. One of the soldiers on their boat is staring at Northern Ireland, looking utterly confused.

“We’re nearing land!” the Lieutenant on their boat screams. The Germans fire a wave of gunshots at them, but they’re still far away enough that they’re safe.

England attempts to focus, calm himself down, get in the zone like he used to before going into battle. But shit, it was so different back when there were rules, and machine guns, bombs, and gas didn’t exist.

_We’re following this company—Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, and I. We need to get to the top of the hill where the Germans are stationed and take them out. And then we’ll travel with this company to link up with the Canadians on Juno. Matthew is there. And Alfred—_

Bullets hit the water near them.

“Brace yourselves!” their Lieutenant yells.

The gear on England’s back suddenly feels like it weighs a ton. He tenses up and gets ready to move.

Gunshots hit the boat in front of them, causing soldiers to collapse.

“DISEMBARK!”

England jumps into the water, the weight of his gear plunging him under the surface. Bullets rain from above, only slowing when they hit the ocean. England forces himself to move forward, fighting against the current and the waves crashing above him. He’s running out of oxygen, though, and the salt is burning his eyes.

Wales is next to him. Together, they trudge forward, reaching a point where the ocean becomes shallow enough that their heads are above water. England’s eyes tear up as he gasps for breath. He desperately tries to clear his vision as water pours out of his helmet. A young soldier, meanwhile, gets shot in the head in front of him.

_I need to make it to dry land. I need to keep walking forward. Shite—_

“Put on your glasses,” Wales hisses, struggling to get his own out of his belt.

England’s head is pounding as they approach the shore. “Red eyes is the least of our problems right now—”

An explosion.

Bodies fly. England’s hearing cuts out. He stumbles onto the beach, seeing soldiers that are hiding behind metal debris for cover and people that are shouting orders. Medics are frantically trying to help victims, but the shower of gunshots is making it hard.

_Where’s our Lieutenant?_

England ducks behind some metal debris, frantically fumbling with his belt to get the stupid glasses out. He notices one lens is cracked and curses.

“We need to move forward!” someone shouts after time blurs by, a lieutenant. Not the one England is supposed to follow, though. “If we stay here, we’ll die!”

His ears are ringing. “Where’s Scot—Where’s Alistair and Eimhinn?” he asks Wales, his voiced coming out choked and muffled by the screams and gunshots around him. The sea is becoming red with blood.

The lenses on Wales’ dark shades are also cracked. He frantically looks around. “I don’t—”

An explosion.

“GO, GO, GO!”

England forces himself to his feet and frantically moves forward, Wales trailing him. He can feel his eyes becoming red as he grows more and more stressed and frantically tries to stop them. In the process, though, he gets distract—

England’s slammed to the ground.

His face is full of sand, and the wind is knocked out of him. He’s being pinned by whoever pushed him, and all of their gear is making it hard to move.

England struggles, causing someone to notice him and grab his leg as they run by. He’s then dragged until he’s behind another debris pile.

England tries to focus his vision. “What—”

“Your friend blocked you. He’s dead. I think you were shot,” the soldier responds.

“MEDIC!”

England’s head is pounding. “I don’t—” He tries to sit up, suddenly feeling a searing pain in his shoulder. There are four other soldiers around him, all young, all looking dazed and tense.

Wales isn’t there.

_Fuck—_

“MEDIC!”

“I’m fine,” England chokes out. He can feel the wound healing but knows it won’t fully close unless the bullet is removed. It feels lodged there.

“You’re not—SWEET MOTHER OF GOD.”

England knows his eyes are red.

He closes them, and as other soldiers ask the one man what’s wrong, England desperately tries to think about how he’s going to grab Wales’s body.

“EVERYONE KEEP MOVING!”

“Is that a _kid_ —”

Someone pushes glasses onto his face.

“Nice job, _Arthur_ ,” Scotland’s voice hisses.

An explosion.

England opens his eyes. Northern Ireland is lying next to him, and Scotland is hunched to the ground.

Soldiers rush past them.

“Our Lieutenant was killed,” Northern Ireland blurts out.

“Wales was shot dead,” England says at the same time.

“I know, his presence cut out,” Scotland sneers. Both him and Northern Ireland have shades planted firmly on their faces.

“We need air support!” a running by soldier screams.

“Aquatic assistance will help once we secure a position!”

England sits up, his eyes zeroing in on the area where Wales’s body is. “I’m going to get him.”

“You bloody have to,” Scotland yells as more gunshots pick up. Northern Ireland flinches. He’s shaking.

England ignores his tone. “Cover me!”

“Yeah, like that’s possi—”

He doesn’t hear the rest as he runs back towards the water. He’s aware some soldiers are yelling things at him, telling him to leave the dead behind, but—

A rain of bullets.

Scotland is shouting, but England ignores him when he finds Wales’s body, almost gagging at the site of the other man’s head being shot in. He grabs his shirt collar; then sees a soldier with his stomach open, organs displayed in front of him. They make eye contact. He’s crying. England drags Wales’s corpse away.

_Faster. Move. Get cover._

“DON’T BRING THAT CORPSE HERE—”

England ducks behind the metal debris, his heart pounding, and Northern Ireland lets out a muffled cry. Scotland and some other soldiers, meanwhile, keep shooting at the defending Germans.

“Other companies are advancing!” someone screams. “The barbed wire is being cut!”

“He had red eyes. We need to get away from him. He actually had—”

“Tom—”

Tom tries to sprint away. He’s shot in the chest immediately.

“Lad, your friend is dead. Leave him behind and get moving!” a Lieutenant urges.

England can see Wales’s face healing, but it’s going to take time. So when he notices some soldiers advance up the hill, he tries to think of a quick decision.

“Stay here with the body,” he orders Scotland and Wales.

That pisses Scotland off. He’s still crouched and aiming at the hill. “Why the fuck should we—”

“I’ve healed already.” His shoulder is actually still throbbing, but they don’t need to know that. “I heal faster than all three of you. If I’m shot again, I’ll be fine. And you guys need to watch Wa—Dylan as he heals.”

“I—”

England leaves him, following a group of advancing soldiers.

They reach the base of the hill where the barbed wire has been cut and crawl underneath it. Time seems to blur by as ships offshore shoot missiles at the metal fortresses. England flinches while that’s happening.

When they make it under the wire, he’s somehow grouped with other men to secure a position. They throw grenades while other teams take fire.

A member of his company finds him. “Where’s the other three you hang out with?!” he shouts over the noise.

An explosion.

“Stuck on the beach!” England yells.

“The one man is dead!” someone snips back to him.

Gunshots.

“He’s not dead!” England screams, trying to figure out where the shots are coming from as they all duck for cover.

“Why the bloody hell are you wearing sunglasses—”

Aeroplanes fly overhead, dropping bombs on the metal fortresses. One catches fire, and most of the gunshots stop. Men start storming up the hill. England hears shouts that reinforcements are already preparing to help them move further inland where there are more Germans concentrated. He get’s ready to move—

“Don’t zone out again,” someone spits into his ear.

England jumps. One of the men near him turns white as a sheet.

Wales doesn’t look amused. Scotland and Northern Ireland are behind him, and dazed, England checks his watch.

It’s 8:00.

“We need to start moving inland towards Juno,” Scotland yells over the noise and frenzy.

Now turned around, England can see how red the beach has gotten and tries to ignore it. “Where are the other members of our company and who the hell is leading it?” he asks.

“The Second Lieutenant is over there,” the pale man almost whispers. England has to strain to hear him.

He starts moving. “Let’s go.”

“Everything is going to plan, right?” Northern Ireland chokes out, running up next to him.

A German jumps out of one of the buildings, screaming. He’s on fire. British soldiers cheer.

“Yeah,” Scotland mutters.

* * *

 

England’s shoulder is throbbing, and he feels lightheaded.

The company they’re advancing with is on edge. Their second in command is leading them, a quarter of the soldiers from their group have been murdered, and their communications with the Canadians have been dodgy at best, so they don’t know what to expect.

Planes keep flying overhead too, some dropping bombs in the distance. Each time that happens, Northern Ireland practically leaps into the air.

Like now.

Scotland is getting pissed off at him. “Stop that,” he hisses.

Northern Ireland ducks his head.

The area they’re trudging through is marshy and barren. Further south is a town that other British soldiers are capturing. Their company, though, just has to meet up with the Canadians to work on connecting the beaches.

Out of the corner of his eye, England sees Wales rub his head. His face is bruised and splotchy in colour, his dirty blonde hair uneven in spots. Every now and then, he’ll stumble too.

The Second Lieutenant holds up his hand, and everyone stops. It’s quiet. England can hear his watch ticking.

8:45.

“I see movement up ahead. Get into defensive positions,” the Second Lieutenant orders.

England strains his eyes and sees what appears like tanks in the distance. He swallows, crouching down and moving behind some tall grass. It brushes up against his skin, causing it immediately to get red and itchy.

“Can your sensitive baby skin handle the wet grass?” Scotland sneers, taking a position next to him.

England prepares his gun, trying to ignore the persistent pain in his shoulder. “At least my sensitive skin isn’t covered in freckles.”

“Fuck you—”

Gunshots.

“Hold your fire,” their command hisses.

England looks to his side and sees Northern Ireland breathing heavily. His hands are shaking.

“What the bloody hell were they thinking?” Scotland spits.

England strains to look through the grass. “What?”

“Eimhinn shouldn’t be here. Not for his first goddamn combat.”

More gunshots.

“Like, Caoimhean at least doesn’t jump at every little noise,” Scotland hisses, adjusting his gun’s position.

“Ireland is neutral,” England mumbles.

Scotland grits his teeth. “God, and I wish my country was too.”

“I’m not in the mood to argue—”

“Is that what this is? I thought we were having a light banter.”

“Both of you, shut up,” Wales hisses.

“Not taking my side today, Dylan? Against old evil colonizing Eyebrows—”

A tank shoots in their direction, narrowly missing, and their Second Lieutenant orders them to retaliate by throwing grenades. Someone phones in for air support while the rest of them hold their positions.

Time passes. The wave of fear and sensory overload makes it hard to gauge how much.

One of the German tanks gets stuck in some mud, then damaged by their grenades. This causes the German soldiers to retreat, but the British company doesn’t move.

9:35.

“We need to keep advancing,” someone urges.

“Wait, I see more tanks!” another shouts.

_Shite._

There’s then something poking England. Not literally, but—

“It’s the Canadians,” he rushes out, feeling Canada’s presence.

The relief that washes over him is like a drug.

* * *

 

Canada is filthy, and his light blonde hair is matted with blood.

“The hell happened to you?” Scotland asks when they all group up.

Canada doesn’t make eye contact. “Another soldier’s blood splattered on me.”

“Ew.”

England puts his hand on Canada’s shoulder, blocking out his brothers. “Are you okay?”

Canada fidgets. “Yeah.”

Wales says something, but England doesn’t feel like being around them anymore. He guides Canada away as Scotland sneers something else.

“So Juno was taken okay?”

Canada nods. “There were casualties…obviously, but we were able to advance. There’s a nearby town that we’re in the process of liberating. That’s where we’re going to regroup and wait.”

“Did you hear anything about the Americans?”

Canada avoids eye contact. “The American beaches aren’t going well, Arthur.”

England feels like someone has punched him in the gut. “What?”

“From what I’ve heard, we underestimated the number of German troops in the area, on Omaha especially. Also, I think air and sea support aren’t helping much.”

“But Alfred was on that—”

“I don’t know anything about what’s happened to America,” Canada hisses.

Now England feels equally annoyed, wishing it was America here and not Canada. He drops his hand and backs up.

Canada glares. “Sorry I’m not the ‘model colony.’”

“The bloody—I don’t need you sprouting Leon’s crap at me.”

“Does it even matter? Hong Kong is rotting in Japan right now.”

Abruptly, England feels like he’s about to vomit. “And that’s somehow _my_ fault!?”

Canada tugs at his hair. “I don’t know! But the British just, _gave_ him up! Even after Francis—Don’t you care?!”

“Of course I fucking—”

“Trouble in paradise?” Scotland coos.

“Piss off,” England spits.

Canada glares at him and walks towards Scotland. “How’s Northern Ireland?”

“I don’t know, ask the goddamn kid yourself.”

“He’s technically 24,” Wales mutters from behind them.

“Does it matter? The pipsqueak only looks like he’s 15 on a good day.”

Northern Ireland is off by himself, drawing with a stick in the dirt.

None of them move. Wales, Scotland, and England are all similar in the fact that they’re piss poor at comforting him, and Canada barely knows the kid to begin with, so…

“Gather around!” their command shouts.

England trudges over. His legs are aching, his shoulder is throbbing, and the equipment is weighing down his every step.

“The nearest town is around 10 kilometers due south of here. The Canadians just got word that it’s been liberated from the Germans. We’ll head there to help secure it, plus to regroup.”

There are murmurs and nods. England feels antsy. He wants to ask about the Americans but knows that wouldn’t be in good taste.

“Let’s head out!”

* * *

 

England is overwhelmed.

Townspeople are flooding the streets, cheering. There are British and Canadian tanks parading. Overhead is filled with the sound of aeroplanes.

It’s around 2 PM—their trek to the town was delayed when encountering a straggling German unit—and right, now they’re in the middle of all the commotion.

England doesn’t know where Scotland is. Some French girl started kissing him, and he’s pretty sure they went off to have sex.

Wales nearly runs into a wall.

Northern Ireland grabs his arm, his eyes almost bugging out of his skull. “I—I think he needs to rest!” he shouts over all the noise.

England’s shoulder would also like to rest. He looks around, his head pounding. “We can—we’ll find someone’s house,” he yells in return.

Canada frowns. “I hate just barging into someone’s home, though.”

Wales squeezes his eyes shut. “I—I need to lie down. I don’t care,” he says in Welsh.

“What about—don’t we need to check-in with command?”

England shoves through some people, scouting for an open spot. “Matthew, we’re fine.”

After weaving their way through everyone, they find a home on the edge of town that the owners let them into. They’re upstairs in one of the bedrooms now.

Wales is on the bed, his breathing more erratic. His forehead is breaking out in a sweat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Northern Ireland sputters.

“He came to life too quickly,” England mutters. “So he didn’t heal properly. He’ll be fine. He just needs some rest.”

“I could say the same about you,” Canada mutters.

England’s eyebrows pinch together. “What?”

“You need rest too; your shoulder is stained with blood.”

_Oh._

“I think there’s a bullet lodged in it,” England mumbles.

Canada frowns. “Here, let me help.”

After England undresses, Canada tends to his wound. Northern Ireland, meanwhile, sits in the corner, fidgeting relentlessly.

England tries to block him out. He still feels resentment that Northern Ireland even exists, knows he’s a horrible person for feeling that way, and doesn’t really care because he’s not a full person to begin with.

“I can’t believe you’re taller than me now,” England mumbles absentmindedly.

Canada cleans out the bullet fragments. “It’s because I finally went through puberty now that your ‘wonderful’ country has given me full independence.”

England stares out the window. People are still celebrating.

Canada drops his hands after a few minutes, and England looks over his shoulder. “Is the wound—”

“Alfred is probably fine. Sorry for snapping at you earlier.”

England blinks; then frowns and stares at the wooden floor.

“It’s clean,” Canada says quietly. “Your wound. So it’s healed.”

Silence.

“He’s probably fine,” he repeats. “It’s not like he’s weak.”

“I’m allowed to worry.”

Northern Ireland’s stomach growls.

“Let’s get some food,” Canada mumbles, walking to the door.

* * *

 

At dinner, Scotland finally makes a reappearance.

“Aye, best damn sex I’ve had in a while.”

“Yay for you,” Wales grumbles, rubbing his head.

Scotland frowns, his expression softening. It only ever does that for him and Ireland. England hates it. “You still hurting?” Scotland asks.

Wales shrugs. “A little. I fell asleep for a while, though, so it’s better.”

“England, pay attention next time, you twat,” Scotland spits.

England picks at his food, ignoring them. They’ve just gotten word that the Americans were able to capture their beaches, but they’re still facing heavy resistance, so it’s going to be hard to link up.

He rubs his face; then notices Northern Ireland staring at his food with a blank expression. “You okay?” he finds himself asking.

Northern Ireland doesn’t respond.

Wales and Scotland quiet down as Canada nudges him. “Hey.”

Northern Ireland jumps. “Y-Yes?”

“Are you okay?” England repeats.

“Yeah…”

“You’ll get used to it,” Scotland says with zero sympathy in his voice. “God knows we have.”

Northern Ireland bites his lip as Canada glares at Scotland. He doesn’t say anything, though.

They continue dinner in silence.

* * *

 

_9 June 1944_

England is gripping America’s back, probably a little too tightly. He doesn’t care.

America’s face is in the crook of his neck. He’s shaking. “G-God, England, there was so much—it was awful. It was really, really awful.”

England rubs his back. “You’re safe now, though.” _You’re with me_.

America sniffs, pulling away. England forces himself to smile.

He’s still in the same town the Canadians liberated three days ago. After various debates, it was decided it’d be easier for him, Canada, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland to remain put.

England has been going crazy these past three days. Scotland and Wales, meanwhile, have been living it up with the local women while he and Canada have been on babysitting duty for Northern Ireland. The kid has been having nonstop nightmares, and neither he nor Canada has had any clue what to do.

Canada at least has more patience than him. All of England’s ran out centuries ago.

He smiles at the man in front of him, finally feeling some of his anxiety dissipate. There’s always that nagging guilt he feels because of France and Hong Kong, but at least that’s being suppressed right now.

“Do you know what the next step is?” England asks.

America frowns. “No. I thought you would.”

England tries to ignore the circles etched under his eyes. “Well, I don’t.”

America sighs and rubs his face. “I want to find France.”

“He’s probably in Paris.” 

America hangs his head. England pulls him into another embrace.

“Canada didn’t get this much love when we met up with him,” Wales’s voice says from behind them.

“Piss off,” England sneers, holding his position.

“I guess you don’t want to hear the update I just got, then.”

America pulls away, and England turns around. “What update?”

“We’re heading back to London.”

England furrows his brow. “What?”

Wales shrugs. “They apparently want the ‘Ally Nations’ to group together. I don’t know; I’m going home to Wales. Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Canada are also going home. But apparently, you and America have to stay in London.”

England pauses. _That actually…doesn’t sound that bad._

“With Russia and China.”

England stares blankly. “Excuse me?”

“ _Why_?” America blurts out at the same time.

Wales looks bored now. “I don’t know. Ask someone if you’re that curious.” He then walks away.

England sighs. He and America are in some random house’s garden.

“…At least we get to be with each other?” America says, sounding unsure.

England looks at him, thinking about how they only just resolved their complicated relationship at the end of the Great War. “Yeah…”

“I still want to find France, though,” America mumbles.

England closes his eyes.

* * *

 

 _18 June 1940_  

_“No. No, wait!”_

_“Keep moving.”_

_“Arthur!”_

_“Francis_ _—”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pronunciation of 'Caoimhean' = keevan  
> pronunciation of 'Eimhinn' = evan  
> both are gaelic // shout out to [rroseselavy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rroseselavy/pseuds/rroseselavy) for letting me use these names he came up with
> 
> I have never learned Anything formally about the UK (or europe really..) so, if I'm wrong, and you know I'm wrong, please don't hesitate to correct me
> 
> From first posting this I decided to do more research on northern ireland, learned that it just became a thing in 1920, had my brother laugh at me for not knowing that, and rewrote the uk brother's entire dynamic because of that. I'm still developing their personalities. Scotland still has to be an asshole to be ""Cannon"" compliant with the rest of the AWH universe. I'll try to dial him back, though, and scrap the commentary on racism 
> 
> uh. i posted these to celebrate the 6 month marking of when I finished DFU. I'm in China rn, though, so don't expect regular updates until late August, early September *finger guns*
> 
> if you've followed me through all 3 fics, then wtf thank you
> 
> thanks so much for reading ;;


	3. Лондон и Нанкин

 13 июня 1944 года

_（13 June 1944）_

“The bathroom is connected over there, see? You have two wardrobes. Oh, and if you want any other pillows and blankets, let the cleaning staff know. Most of your things should be put away by now, but feel free to arrange them however you want.”

Russia grunts, already tired of hearing English.

His escort/glorified tour guide nods. He’s been doing that after every sentence. “Great.” He nods. “That should be it.” Nods. “The others have their rooms in the same hallway.” Nods. “The dinner schedule is posted on the kitchen door. The English Nation Avatar can show you.” An extra vigorous nod. “That’s all!”

He leaves, and Russia almost breathes a sigh of relief until his main nuisance arrives.

“I’ll—I’ll be staying in another hallway near you. You can come to me if—come to me if you have any concerns.”

Russia gives him a dull stare.

The man fidgets. “OkayI’llbeleavingnow,” he blurts out, practically sprinting away.

Kazimir Gorelov.

Russia’s officials told him that Gorelov was nineteen, but there’s no way in hell that’s true. Christ, he still has baby fat.

Russia picks at the curtains.

Gorelov is, as Russia’s been told, his ‘advisor.’ It’s a new system the Soviet government is implementing—copying the other Ally countries. Apparently, Gorelov is going to hang out with him all the time and report his actions back to the government.

Russia is thrilled.

He rubs his face. He’s tired from traveling and just wants to sleep, but knows he should at least try to be civil with America and England.

He’s not sure where they are, though.

Nor does he—he pinches the bridge of his nose.

He knows England. He knows England well. They’ve had plenty of interactions in the past. But Arthur, the person?

Russia thinks he likes knitting. He remembers a vague conversation where they talked about that once. And Russia also likes knitting, but Christ, you can only talk about it for so long.

America, on the other hand, he’s had even fewer interactions with. They’ve certainly chatted before, but all of those meetings were monitored. And in the instances where there haven’t been government officials breathing down their backs, one of America’s friends was also there, and he’s always latched onto them.

Russia fidgets, hating the fact that he’s going to be trapped in London for an indefinite amount of time because of some vague reason.

He forces himself to walk out of the room.

Though he’s been to Buckingham Palace before, he’s not familiar with the layout. And even though the Nations have an area blocked off just to themselves, it’s still large, and everything is like a maze, and shit he’s lost.

“Where are you going?”

_Jesus fucking—_

Russia turns around and faces Gorelov. “Am I not allowed to wander?”

The kid squirms. “I, uh—I guess that’s allowed.”

“Everything okay?” a new voice asks in Polish.

Gorelov looks relieved as the man approaches them, and Russia blinks, confused after he senses the other person is American.

The American man looks bored. “Kazimir.” God, his pronunciation is wrong. “Just let him go. It doesn’t matter.”

Gorelov nods. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Russia doesn’t hear as he leaves.

After wandering down a hallway, running into a dead end and passing by a courtyard, he makes it to the kitchen where he finally hears America and England’s voices.

“—rland all aren’t coming?” America asks. Russia only catches the last bit.

“I don’t know,” England responds.

“…”

England huffs. “I…I don’t know why we’re here. I don’t know why they’re not. And I’m certainly not sure why Russia is too, and China is coming tomorrow.”

_Right._

_Yao is…_

Russia’s head suddenly feels tight, and he backs away.

“What time is it?” America asks a few moments later.

There’s a pause. “10 PM,” England responds.

Russia walks away, deciding just to go to bed.

* * *

 

14 июня 1944 года

_（14 June 1944）_

America fidgets. “I mean…I guess you can come.”

England hits him; then puts on such a fake smile that Russia almost laughs in his face. “Of course you can.”

Russia knows the two of them don’t want him to go out to breakfast with them. He doesn’t care. There’s nothing to do, China won’t be arriving for a while, and dammit, Russia knows he should at least try and talk to them.

“Well, let’s go then,” England says after glancing at his watch. It’s 8 AM.

“Don’t we have to check in with those, like, babysitters, though?” America asks as they start walking.

While Russia scrunches up his eyebrows, England appears to know exactly what he’s talking about. “No. The whole idea of them is rubbish anyway. We’ll be fine.”

“If we get in trouble, I’m blaming you.”

England rolls his eyes and gives him a playful shove.

“I’m sorry, babysitters?” Russia asks.

“You should speak English when we’re out in public,” is the response England gives.

Russia twitches. “I’m  _sorry_ , babysitters?” he spits in English, his accent thick.

America squirms. “Those like—the people watching us and taking notes.”

_Oh. The advisors._

They grow silent. Russia’s afraid security will stop them on their way out of the palace grounds, but there are no such problems, and they make it out to the streets with ease.

America’s steps are bouncy. “Where are we going?”

England contemplates. “There are some nice cafés nearby. One of my favourites was destroyed in an air raid, but…here, I know.”

Russia follows two paces behind, chewing his lip.

The streets are crowded, and they have to weave their way through everyone. Having nothing else to do, Russia people-watches.

He frowns when he sees a woman that looks like Ukraine.

He misses both her and Belarus. Thinking about them, their histories—it gives him a headache. He loves Katya and Natalya and can’t understand why they like him, Ivan, after what he is and represents.

After what that’s doing to them.

_But they’re safe right now. They have to be Stalin’s goddamn maids, but this is better. The Soviet Union is protecting them from the Nazis_

_Yeah…_

Russia has a headache. He stops walking.

America and England continue forward without noticing him. He stands in the same spot, someone grumbling about how he’s blocking the way, until they disappear out of his sight.

He can’t help but sigh and turns around, heading back to the palace. It’s at least big enough that he knows what direction to go.

* * *

 

He’s half undressed and lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

There’s a Russian novel on his nightstand. He opened it to the first chapter, reread the first page three times, then dozed off.

Russia rubs his face and sits up, checking the clock adjacent to his bed.

1:30 PM.

_I guess I could have the cooks prepare me some lunch…_

He stands up and puts his outfit back together, only leaving when he doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

Not that it matters.

He looks over his shoulder when walking down the hall, half-expecting Gorelov to emerge and trail him, but thankfully he never—

“I’m just going to get some food. You don’t need to escort me.”

“Mr. Wang.”

Russia is suddenly rooted into place. China looks annoyed and jetlagged, and his two advisors are hovering, seeming unsure.

“Seriously, I’m fi—” China notices Russia. “Ivan and I are going to the kitchen together. We’re fine.”

_Ivan. Ivan. Ivan._

No one calls him that but Ukraine and Belarus. But he—fuck, Russia’s heart is suddenly in his throat, and he feels lightheaded.

The one advisor frowns. “Alright, fine. We’ll check in later.”

“I’ll probably be asleep then,” China mutters when they’re out of earshot.

Russia has no idea what to do.

“Sorry, were you even going to the kitchen?” China asks.

Russia nods, feeling like his tour guide from yesterday. “Y-Yeah.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Russia feels himself relaxing a bit, his expression turning sheepish. “I think?”

China smiles. “You think?”

“It’s like a maze in here. Cut me some slack.”

China rolls his eyes.

It’s quiet as they start walking, and Russia can feel his presence. Just being around it makes him feel drunk.

He hates it, hates how it affects him; knows China and it and  _everything_  shouldn’t make him feel this way.

But…

China’s the only one besides his sisters who acknowledges that Ivan Braginski exists.

“When did you arrive?” Russia finds himself asking.

“Only 30 minutes ago,” China replies as they turn a corner. They pass the entrance to the courtyard, and Russia nearly sighs in relief when he knows they’re heading in the right direction.

“How long was your flight?” he asks once he collects himself.

China rubs his face. “Too long.”

Russia is about to respond, but he’s interrupted by a coughing fit.

China stops walking. “Are you—”

Russia hacks up blood, feels lightheaded, feels embarrassed, suddenly has a searing headache, can’t tell what’s going on, and—

China is rubbing his back. “What’s being attacked?”

Russia’s vision is blurry. “I don’t—I don’t know.” He takes a couple of deep breaths, acutely aware China is still touching him.

“Your hand is all bloody,” China murmurs.

“The carpet—”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s get you to the kitchen.”

His voice is soft, and Russia nods, knowing the reason his face is flushed isn’t from the coughing.

They start walking again. China is guiding him.

“How—How do you feel?” Russia wheezes, his breathing coming out more normal. “You…with everything going on, how do you feel?”

China blinks, looking at him. “Oh, me…I’m…”

Silence.

He looks away. “No one has asked me that in a very long time. I guess…really weak.”

 _Why has no one asked him?_  “I’m sorry,” Russia says, trying not to sound irrationally angry.

China laughs. “You’re sorry? Why?”

Russia’s tongue feels thick. “Because you have to not only suffer through a civil war but also deal with the Japanese.”

“Yeah, but that’s nothing for  _you_  to feel sorry for.” His expression is strained.

Russia’s head pounds.

A few staff members look startled when they enter the kitchen, especially when they see the blood on Russia’s hand. They then garble out some questions, give China a wet towel, and usher them away

They’re now in the sitting area across from the kitchen.

China is gently cleaning Russia’s hand. Russia’s brain is short-circuiting.

“You—I can do this myself,” he forces out.

China lifts his head. He appears calm while Russia knows he looks like a frazzled mess.

“It’s fine,” China murmurs, rubbing circles into his skin.

Russia wants to kiss him.

A jolt of fear surges through his body that only gets worse when China brings the towel up to his face.

His expression is blank. “You have some blood here.”

Russia squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his heart in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry this time?”

“I-I—” Russia swallows. “You can go do to what you were going to do in the kitchen,” he almost begs when China’s fingers start grazing over his stubble.

“What if I don’t—”

“Oh, you’re here.”

England’s voice.

Russia’s eyes snap open as China pulls away. He seems completely unbothered. “When are the eating times?”

England points. America is standing next to him. “There’s a schedule posted on the wall over there. But you can just tell them what you want, and they’ll serve you whenever.”

China stands. Russia’s heart is still pounding.

“I take it there’s just British food, right?” China mutters, walking to the door.

England looks annoyed. “They can cook you whatever you want.”

“But not Chinese.”

“They bloody know how to make Chinese food.”

“Because Hong Kong lived here?”

“HEY!” America aggressively interrupts. “England, let’s uh.” He makes eye contact with Russia, frowns when he sees how much of a wreck he looks, causing Russia to glare back despite his emotions still running wild, and—

China shoves past England and America.

England blinks, suddenly noticing Russia. “Are you okay? There’s blood on your shirt.”

Russia’s flustered feelings are being replaced by irritation. “I’m fine.”

“Where the hell did you go this morning?” America blurts out. “You suddenly disappeared.”

“I didn’t feel like third-wheeling.”

“Third—what?”

“Come on, Alfred,” England interrupts before Russia can respond. “Let’s go to the garden.”

When they leave, Russia rubs his face and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but eventually, China returns.

“Ivan, I’m sorry. I can’t stay awake any longer. I’m going to bed.”

Russia sits up, his throat feeling tight at the use of his human name. “I—it’s only about 2 PM, you know.”

“Yeah. I’ll deal with the jetlag later.”

Russia nods, avoiding eye contact.

“We should go out together tomorrow, though.”

Russia’s eyes snap back to China’s face. He’s smiling.

“Um, yeah,” Russia forces out. “Yeah.”

China yawns. “Alright. Let’s plan to go in the morning. Maybe out for breakfast.”

“Yeah,” Russia finds himself repeating like an idiot.

China gives a little nod.

“Yao,” Russia chokes out when he’s almost gone.

“Hmm?”

“Feel better. You deserve to rest.”  _You deserve so much._

China blinks, then quickly looks away and fiddles with his hair. “Feel better too, Ivan.”

Russia releases a shaky breath when he’s gone.

He wishes now more than ever he could throw these feelings away.

* * *

 

25 февраль 1912 года

_（25 February 1912）_

“Congratulations on becoming the Republic of China,” one of Russia’s officials says cheerily. “The Russian Empire will support your new government.”

_If the Russian Empire doesn't fall to pieces._

Russia impatiently shifts. His officials are boasting about how great this new ‘partnership’ between the Russians and Chinese is going to be while at least half the Chinese in the room appear miserable. China is one of those Chinese. He has yet to say anything to Russia, even if they are standing right next to each other.

Russia has to fight the urge to look at him. He’s barely seen China since 1644 when the Qing Dynasty started isolating itself. And then even with the Western powers coming in for trading during the early 1800s, and the disastrous Russo-Japanese War, there was little incentive to send Russia over himself to Asia. Rather, flinging him around Europe seemed more beneficial.

But now…

“Thankfully those remaining Boxers will be eradicated, and the Russian Empire will help the Republic of China advance into the modern world.”

Russia feels China clench up next to him.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he says without thinking, not knowing what even possesses him to do so.

China stares. Their officials keep talking in the background.

Russia suddenly feels embarrassed. “I mean, if you want. I don’t think they’ll miss us if we leave.”

“…They probably won’t.”

Russia fidgets, studying his hands. “So do you want to go?”  _Why am I doing this; he clearly doesn’t like me just like everyone else—_

“Fine.”

Russia snaps his head up.

China’s face is blank. “I said fine.”

Russia nods, feeling jittery. He almost never does this with other Nations, and going off alone definitely seems better than hanging around here.

They escape out a side entrance. There are guards outside, but none try to stop them as they walk away.

Russia has no idea where to go, though.

“There are some gardens we can sit in,” China says after he starts to wander around like a lost idiot.

“O-Okay.”

They’re in the Presidential Palace at Nanjing. Only in January of this year, after the Qing Dynasty was defeated in the Wuchang Uprising on 10 October 1911, was it declared the capital of the Republic of China.

Russia studies China as they walk through the dark halls. The reason for the uprising is that the Qing Dynasty was seen as weak, especially after the Boxer Rebellion, where the British Empire, Russian Empire, French Third Republic, Empire of Japan, German Empire, United States, Austria-Hungary, and the Kingdom of Italy fought against the Qing Dynasty and its foreigner-hating Boxer Rebels.

The foreign Powers won. The Qing Dynasty crumbled. And now the Republic of China exists.

Russia knows China is bitter and probably hates him and what he represents and what his country helped do, but…

He still left the meeting with him.

“Out here,” China says, opening a door. Russia follows him.

It’s night, so it’s dark, but stars are illuminating the sky.

“This is beautiful,” Russia finds himself saying.

China snorts. “You can barely see anything.”

“Yeah, but—the stars are beautiful.”

Russia can just make out China glancing at the sky. “I guess.”

It’s chilly since it’s February. Russia rubs his arms, shifting back and forth.

“Your hair is different,” is what tumbles out of his mouth after a bit. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him; he usually never talks this much to other Nations unless it’s Ukraine or Belarus.

“From what?” China mutters, sounding slightly annoyed. “They keep making me change it.”

“I—it’s shorter than from what I saw last.”

“Yeah.” China sighs. “I want it long again. I like it like that.”

“Then tell them.”

China snorts. “Who?”

“Your…uh—”

“Do  _you_  even have control over your own hair? What makes you think it’s any different for me?”

Russia’s mind blanks. “Um. No. But you’re—you  _are_  different. I’m sure you could convince them.”

“Oh? How am I different?”

“You’re from the East.”

Russia’s eyes are better adjusted, so he can see China give him an even more annoyed glare. “What does that—”

“I’m just a pawn piece,” Russia says quickly. “You’re not. You’re…”

China leans on some railing. “A God?”

It sounds cocky, but China just looks tired stating the fact.

“Being a God is better than a pawn piece,” Russia mumbles.

“Ivan, I’m no longer a God.”

The use of his name catches Russia completely off guard. He suddenly feels jittery. “Well, you’re not a pawn piece. So just—I’m sure you could tell them what hairstyle you want.”

“…”

Russia rubs his hands together, not knowing what to do with himself.

“Why do you care?” China asks.

Russia frowns. “What?”

“Why do you care about my hair?”

“I—you should just be—you deserve to be happy.”

“Happy.”

“And if having longer hair—fuck, I don’t know. I—”

China suddenly bursts into laughter. “You’re getting so flustered. Holy shit, calm down.”

Russia feels his cheeks flush. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen China laugh like that before.

China stands up straight. “I remember when you were a little kid.”

Russia grimaces.

“Now you tower over me.”

“You’re—You really aren’t that much shorter.”

China walks closer. “Really? Because I swear you goddamn white people are doing this on purpose.” He leans in. “To intimidate us.”

It’s 0º outside, but suddenly just seeing China smirk makes Russia feel inexplicably warm.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice cracks.

China laughs again. It sounds like music. “For what?”

He doesn’t know. He’s suddenly feeling  _guilty_  for being tall and for his own country’s actions, even though he’s never supposed to feel guilty about that, and—

China places his hand on Russia’s arm.

Russia nearly jerks back, the touch of it feeling hot.

“How long are you going to be here?”

“A week,” Russia gets out, struggling against a feeling of breathlessness. His heart is beating rapidly.

“Have you ever been to Nanjing?”

“Not that I—I don’t think so.”

China blinks. “Well, I can show you around if you want.”

“Okay,” Russia whispers.

* * *

 

29 февраль 1912 года

 _（29 February 1912_  ）

“Mr. Wang hasn’t been this friendly to any of the other Western Nations. He seems to have taken a liking to your Nation Avatar.”

“What a wonderful symbolic gesture to show…”

Russia is frozen around the corner, fighting against a stupid feeling of  _giddiness._

He jumps when China comes into view.

“Ivan, do you want to have lunch now?”

“S-Sure.”

They start walking.

“Yao,” he adds on in a small voice.

China doesn’t look at him. “You don’t have to say my name like it’s a swear. Just say it.”

Russia blinks. None of the Nations in Europe call each other by their first names. None of the Nations the Russian Empire has influence over does that either.

“Okay, Yao,” he says with a little more confidence.

China smiles. It makes Russia’s knees feel weak.

He’s afraid at what’s happening to him.

* * *

 

China is tipsy.

“I don’t know why you Nations from the West are so weird about names.”

Russia fidgets, turning his vodka glass in his hand. “Because we’re…we’re Nations.”

“So are Kiku, Yong-Soo, and I.”

Okay, Russia is a little tipsy too, so he has less of a filter. “Have you seen them at all recently?”

China downs some more alcohol. “No.”

“…”

“Not—Not with the Japanese fucking colonizing Korea now.” China places his hand on Russia’s arm and leans in close. His breath stinks. “At least you’re a nice Western colonizer.”

Russia swallows. China doesn’t move. “All the others—Arthur is an _asshole_. Francis refused to leave the side of his officials. Gilbert…” China trails off, leaning away to grab his glass and down some more alcohol.

“I’m all alone,” he then says miserably. “Everyone—Nations I was friends with in the past died. And Yong-Soo and Kiku… ”

Russia shifts. “I’m not close to anyone either. Only my sisters, but…”

“Oh?”

“I know them. But me…Ivan…”

The wind rustles their window

China puts his glass down. “Well I, Wang Yao, like you, Ivan Braginski.”

_Oh._

Russia’s heart starts beating erratically. China’s face is bright red, and he looks up at the ceiling, giggling. “You’ve at least acted like a person with me. And now you’re an adult. Barely—we barely interacted when you were a kid. Except under those Mongols. You remember that? Because I do.”

“I remember,” Russia chokes out.

“Heh…you’re flustered again.” China leans in, seeming fascinated. “Does me being close fluster you?”

Russia’s vision blurs.

“Your face is red.” China touches it. “From the alcohol…?”

He moves away and lies on the pillows scattered on the ground as Russia fights against his own jumbled thoughts.

He’s feeling overwhelmed when China speaks again.

“I miss Kiku and Yong-Soo.”

“I miss my sisters,” Russia forces himself to respond. He can keep this normal. He can ignore what’s—

“They’re not really your sisters.”

“It’s nice to call them that, though.”

China studies him. Russia looks away.

“Ivan?”

“Y-Yes?”

China frowns. “I’m going to miss you when you leave on Sunday.”

That’s the moment Russia knew he was fucked.

* * *

 

15 июня 1944 года

_（15 June 1944）_

It’s 2 AM, and Russia can’t sleep.

Rather than keep staring at his ceiling, he decides to go for a walk. It’s unseasonably hot today, and the warm air is clinging to his skin as he strolls through the hallway.

He eventually ends up passing by the courtyard and decides to finally go out to look at it.

“Jesus—”

Russia blinks, holding the door open. England is staring at him and clutching his chest.

“Oh. It’s you,” he then says.

Russia frowns. “Sorry?”

“No—you just scared me.”

They don’t move.

“There’s a bench out here if you want to stay,” England mumbles.

Russia pauses, then takes his offer and sits down.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“My room feels like a sauna,” Russia mutters

England rubs his face. “Hopefully, this hot weather goes away soon.”

Some crickets are chirping.

“Do you know why we’re here?” Russia asks, realizing he finally has the chance to ask this question.

England frowns. “No.”

“Then what the fuck?”

“I…Okay, I may know one reason why.”

“Which is…?”

“Now that the invasion of France is underway, British, Canadian, and American troops…” England takes a deep breath. “They’ve been hearing things about these…camps. And there’s been rumours that Nations are in some of them, so…all of us might be here for security reasons right now?”

Russia frowns. “That’s…how is London any safer than Moscow?”

“It isn’t, but I also I think they want us here because of our location to France. Like…if the Nazis suddenly start using Nations as weapons there; then we’re close enough to do something.”

“Why the four of us?”

England seems defeated. “Because we’re the strongest?”

Russia thinks of how he was reduced to a pathetic, coughing mess today.

“I hope the rumours are just rumours, though,” England mumbles.

“What, that the Nations are being held in camps or that they’re being used as super soldiers?”

“…”

“England, they’re probably just Hitler’s housemaids.”

He scrunches up his eyebrows. “What?”

Russia feels slightly uncomfortable. “That’s what Stalin does with…the Nations under the USSR’s influence. And when, um, the USSR and Nazi Germany had a pact, Hitler visited Stalin’s estate once and complimented it.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

England forces himself to laugh. “Okay, so—so France could be a housemaid right now.” His voice sounds broken.

“I’m sure Prussia is like—they have a friendship, right?” Russia asks, hating the both of them. “I’m sure Prussia is looking out for him.”

England nods. “Yeah. Okay…yeah.” He fidgets. “Sorry about this morning. You can…go out to breakfast with Alfred and I tomorrow—er, today if you want.”

Russia blinks. “Thanks. But Yao and I already have plans.”

“Ah…well, have fun.”

They sit there for a few more minutes; then both go back to their rooms to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1912 was a leap year


	4. 京都市

_1944_ _年_ _6_ _月_ _15_ _日_  

The atmosphere is so tense it’s almost suffocating.

“The Allies’ attacks on D-Day have been successful. The invasion of France is going underway, and German forces are being forced to retreat as Soviet troops on the other side also make large advances.”

Emperor Hirohito says nothing. Instead, he frowns and wears that calculating expression like he usually does.

High-ranking government officials are lining the walls of the throne room, security hovering in the background. They’re all standing. The emperor is sitting.

Japan, too, is standing. He’s behind the throne, in the shadows. Everyone’s been taught to ignore him.

Finally, Hirohito speaks. “And you think Germany is going to fall?”

It’s a war advisor who’s talking to him—a strategist. Hirohito is constantly calling these meetings to hear them speak, and there has never been a cabinet in which all the ministers reported so often to the throne.

It gives Japan a headache.

The advisor swallows. “With all the available evidence, yes.”

_If Germany falls, Japan isn’t far behind._

It’s an unspoken thought no one would dare to utter.

Anger flashes across Hirohito’s face, though it quickly disappears. Everyone is staring at the floor.

“I want a full summary of recent military actions from the War Council,” he eventually orders after glancing around.

They already have it prepared, and copies are passed around to those who haven’t seen it yet. Japan is offered one. Japan declines.

Instead, he spaces out, unable to stomach any more news about the war, trying to discreetly cover the coughs that are always there in the back of his throat.

His headache is getting worse.

Time passes by, blurring together in a jumbled mess as they talk about US bombing campaigns on Japanese cities, and US Navy blockades that are preventing shipments from coming through, and what the British troops are doing in South East Asia, and the lack of supplies and resentment of their colonies and how Japan is _losing_ battle after battle after battle after—

Japan tries to take a deep breath but falters when he feels his eyes start to turn red.

_No._

He struggles, chokes on his own spit, feels his skin burn in the areas he’s bled because of bombing attacks.

_Keep it together. Deep breath. Don’t let anyone—_

Someone taps him on the shoulder.

Japan whips his head around, only to see his advisor standing behind him with the door open. Guards are staring them down.

“Do you want to leave?” she asks.

Japan knows he looks like a psychotic mess. “I’m fine,” is what comes out of his mouth, smooth and easy, his voice not betraying him at all.

His advisor, a 72-year-old woman named Aida Makiko, studies him. Japan hates being under her gaze. It’s like she’s dissecting him.

“What’s this commotion?” one council member asks, and suddenly the entire room’s attention is on them.

Aida bows. Japan feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as he does the same.

“What’s going on?” Hirohito asks.

Aida doesn’t show any fear. “Mr. Honda did not look well, so I was going to escort him to his bedroom if that is okay. I apologize for causing this interruption.”

Hirohito twists his head so he can see Japans’ figure clearly. “Is this true? Do you not feel well?”

Japan wants to die.

“I’m fine,” he says smoothly, feeling more sweat build up and cling to the back of his suit jacket.

It’s silent as Hirohito adjusts his position so that he’s facing forward again. “There’s no use for him at the moment,” he then says. “Escort Mr. Honda back to his room until this meeting is finished.”

Japan swallows, and he and Aida stand upright. She then leads him into the hallway.

He resists the urge to strangle her once they’re far enough away. “I’m _fine_.”

She doesn’t look at him. “Really? Because your eyes were turning red, and that would have frightened everyone. I had to get you out.”

He frowns.

“If you don’t want me to make another scene in the future, then perhaps you should control your emotions.”

Japan opens his mouth; then closes it.

Aida gives him a dismissive nod. “Come. Let me show you to your room. I’ll fetch you again when the Emperor is ready.”

They’re on the grounds of the Imperial Palace. After exiting the building where the meeting is taking place, they head to the sleeping quarters, Japan being shown to his room once inside.

They shut the door behind him.

The room is modestly sized, traditionally Japanese with soft flooring and paper doors. On one side is a door that leads to the hallway. The other has a door that’s to the garden.

He can see guards stationed outside of both.

His suit is uncomfortable. He’d rather change into a kimono, but resists doing so and lies down. The bedding is hard, though, and it aggravates the bruise on his right hip that formed there this morning.

Aida commented on it when she helped him dress. She insists on doing it so she can treat his wounds, and it infuriates Japan to no end.

She wasn’t his advisor at first. He had someone else, someone younger.

She was obedient until Aida and her husband came to Kyoto.

Aida’s husband was a scientist who wanted to give a report to Hirohito. He was an outsider, someone who didn’t know about the inner workings of the government. Maybe that’s what tempted her to do it. The meeting even had the same setup as the one today. Hirohito was sitting on his palace throne; Japan was behind him in the shadows, his old advisor hovering nearby while Aida’s husband stood in front as she bowed.

The presentation started off normal, the only thing unusual being Japan’s advisor fidgeting relentlessly. That was it. So why did she snap with no warning at all? Why did she start screaming and pleading for Aida’s husband to take her away from ‘this demon?’ Guards tried to restrain her, but then she got violent. She lunged for Hirohito, and Japan had to dive in front of him just as guards opened-fired.

He swallows, picking at a loose string on his shirt.

The problem was, the bullets not only hit her, but him too, and with bright red eyes, he regenerated in front of poor old Aida and her husband.

He ruined their lives. Aida was forced to become his new advisor after his old one was executed, and the husband was sent away. Japan doesn’t know to where. They also have a son, but Japan isn’t sure of his age or what happened to him either. He assumes he’s in his late forties or early fifties and probably has kids of his own.

And now he’ll never see his parents again.

A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. It’s a muggy June night, and the air is so moist it feels as though it’s going to suffocate him.

He wishes that could happen. He wishes he could die—stab himself in the stomach and commit seppuku. No longer exist and just be free.

But no. He’d heal, and wake up, and have to deal with this never-ending expansion of life he’s put up with for thousands of years.

Nations are immortal. Nations can’t be killed unless their country falls apart.

_“I’ve killed Nations before.”_

Japan hastily sits up, not wanting to think about China, or Korea, or—

_Korea scrunched up his eyebrows. “No you haven’t.”_

_China was taller than the two of them. His long hair was elaborately tied up, his robe was elegant, and Japan was intimidated._

_China didn’t bat an eye. “Yes I have. How do you think I’m alive after so many dynasties?”_

_The Tang Dynasty was the current one. Japan and Korea were with him as an act of tribute._

_Japan didn’t want to be here. He was afraid. Korea was annoying. He missed home. China was an adult, and he and Korea were only children._

_Korea was insistent. “But_ you _didn’t kill them. Goguryeo, Baekje, and Kaya were also kingdoms, but I didn’t—those Nations died on their own.”_

_“Silla.” China smiled. “No, Yong-Soo.” Japan was afraid. His smile carried weight and power, and for the first time, he was aware of how small and weak he was. “It’s possible to force a Nation to dissolve.”_

_China and Japan made eye contact._

_“Sometimes they can even do it willingly.”_

Japan still has no idea what that cryptic sentence means. Here he is, _begging_ for death, yet his body seems to mock him and keep on living despite everything.

Does Japan the country have to fall for him to finally know peace? Does America have to kill him?

Japan shudders and wipes his forehead. He wonders what America’s—what Alfred’s cheery face was like when the Japanese dropped the bombs on Pearl Harbor. He wonders how different everything would be now if they just didn’t—

America, Alfred, is someone he wishes he could be. He was outgoing; not afraid to express his opinion. He was so genuine while Japan knows every facet of his personality is fake and calculated.

 _“Life is shit. Our lives as Nations are shit. Let’s pretend they aren’t,”_ Italy told him, the only other person besides Germany as phony as him.

_“You’re disgusting.” Romano spat._

_It felt like someone just slapped Japan._

_“I’m not Feliciano. Don’t ever spout that fake shit at me.”_

More sweat rolls down Japan’s back. He feels sickly.

He hasn’t contacted Italy or Germany in months. And now that France and Italy are being invaded, Japan knows it’s the end.

He wants to cry. It’s pathetic. He knows he deserves all of this, though, especially after how he saw Prussia—how he still has to see all those—those other—

There’s a knock on the door. Japan retches. His head is spinning. Suddenly Aida is there. He wants to tell her to go away. He wants to be alone; yet, she forces him up. They walk. Where are they going? Why are guards accompanying them?

“He’s pale.”

“Should the emperor be seeing him in this state?”

“It’s his wishes.”

Murmurs. Voices. They’re choking him. Maybe they can kill him.

_“How can they do it willingly?” Japan asked China, his voice cool._

_China bent over and twirled a loose strand of his long hair. Japan wanted to swat his hand away. He resisted._

_“They just really wanted to die.”_

Japan wants to die. He wants to die  _now_.

_America smiled. It was bright. He was energetic. He was nothing like what Japan imagined, especially after Mathew Perry and his ships crashed onto his doorstep._

_America extended his hand, thought against it a second later, bowed; then nearly hit his head on a low bookshelf._

_His face was red. Japan actually laughed._

His vision blurs. The United States is Japan’s enemy. China is Japan’s enemy. And they should be able to conquer China, but all the fucking troops keep pushing back, and further territory gains are nothing but obsolete now, and _Yao_ is nowhere to be found. With America? With Alfred? Are they both mocking him? The Japanese can’t make any gains on the Americans. No, they’re just losing and losing and losing—

Doors are opened. Japan is led through.

Italy will be conquered. Germany will be conquered. And then all of their secrets will be revealed. Will Japan be considered vile? Will the Japanese?

_Prussia was restrained. He screamed. They pulled out his eye._

Japan feels tears welling up. People are speaking to him. He doesn’t do anything. He didn’t do anything. Not for Korea. Not for Hong Kong, or any of the others who’re rotting here. God, they’re so close. He could do something today, and yet, he’s utterly powerless.

Italy and Germany are gone. He’s alone. They were his coping mechanism, and now they’re gone. Gone with all the other friends he’s made. Gone. Alone. He doesn’t know what he wants except to die.

Bombs. Something is being bombed, and suddenly he can see them, and people are yelling, and—he’s bleeding. His eyes are red.

Is that the emperor?

_Kill me, kill me, kill me—_

* * *

 

 _1860_ _年_ _9_ _月_ _21_ _日_  

Prussia throws his feet up on the table, and Japan nearly flinches.

“You’d think we would’ve met at some point in our existence, but wow, this is the first time. Honda Kiku, right? Cool name.”

Japan nearly has a headache. “And you’re Gilbert Beilschmidt?”

“Yeah. Just call me Gilbert.”

“Call…I thought Western countries don’t use those names.”

Prussia waves his hand. “What, is that the shit Netherlands and Portugal have been spouting to you over the years?”

_Yes._

_America also felt the same way…_

Prussia sits up straight. “Well, anyway, I’m Gilbert.”

Japan scoots back. “Ah…”

Prussia glances around. “This room is neat. You said it was used for tea ceremonies, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you live here in Kyoto?”

Japan frowns. “Yes, with the Emperor’s family,” he says tightly.

Prussia snorts. “Then you’re not doing much, I suppose.”

Japan doesn’t really want to discuss how the Shogun has all the power, how he as a Nation is nothing more than a figurehead, how Japan is divided into clans, and how these Western powers are barging into East Asia and forcing these unfair trade deals—

“No, I’m not doing much.”

“Man, you must be living the life then,” Prussia says, leaning his head back. “Because here I am, being forced to charge into battle after battle like some rabid dog.”

“I’d rather be doing that than wasting away here,” Japan mutters.

“So you’re not used in any battle campaigns at all?”

“No.” He picks at a loose string on his kimono. “I just represent the emperor and his family. I don’t serve the shogun or have relations to any of the clans.”

“Ah…”

“But because of that, no new Nations have formed, so I guess that’s one positive.” Though it doesn’t feel like much.

Prussia blinks. “Well, don’t worry because it looks like things are going to change here. Once the entire country is united, I’m sure you’ll be able to do more things.”

Japan tries not to sneer. “What, thanks to you and your Western friends?”

“I guess,” Prussia says, not picking up on his tone at all. He then fidgets. “It’s cool that you’re the only Nation, though. Even with the multiple clans.”

Japan stares at him.

“’Cause the German Confederation gives me a headache. But now Otto von Bismarck wants more, like, ‘German Nationalism,’ and to kick out Austria and.” Prussia stands up. “But enough about me. Show me around, Kiku.”

Japan blinks. This is the first time a Western Nation has ever used his name.

They head outside, and Japan has no idea what to start with. “This is the rock garden,” he eventually says, feeling lame.

Prussia aimlessly walks around. “Neat.”

There’s a few moments pause as they both study everything.

“When did you cut your hair?” Prussia then asks abruptly. “Netherlands always told me it was long.”

Japan frowns, taken aback by such a brash and personal question. “1854. After the United States pressured Japan into the Convention of Kanagawa.”

“Ah. Cool, cool. You’ve met America—er, Alfred, right? He’s a good kid,”

“He was…loud.” First impressions aside, he was loud and energetic, but not…completely intolerable. They actually had things in common too.

Prussia snorts. “Heh, yeah. His country’s a mess right now, though. A civil war is bound to happen soon.”

A breeze picks up.

“What else is here?” Prussia asks. “Besides this rock garden.”

“Oh, uh, follow me.”

Japan’s thoughts wander as they walk around, glancing at some of the construction projects going on.

So much is changing. He almost wants to grab onto the past, yet it seems like people are yanking it away. Japan is being forced open. China is a mess.

The only one still in a blissful state of isolation is Korea.

Japan tries to suppress a wave of bitterness.

He doesn’t know how to read the man next to him, the Nation, whose steps are light and bouncy as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Here he’s thought for hundreds of years that Western Nations didn’t use personal names, or really have their own personalities, or wanted to interact with other Nations on a deeper level at all.

But Prussia disproves all of that.

It almost makes Japan angry.

Everything really is changing.

* * *

 _1904_ _年_ _2_ _月_ _10_ _日_  

He’s in Seoul. Well, the Japanese are occupying Seoul.

He maybe glanced at Korea once and has made sure not to see him since.

“The Russians are not going to send their Nation Avatar,” one of his war advisors says.

That’s the whole reason why Japan is here. Declaring war on a Western country means their Nations should engage in combat. It’s the formal way to do things.

There are protests of anger.

“Why!?”

“Are they not taking us seriously!?”

Japan stares at the table, feeling like everything is a cruel joke.

“We crippled their warships!”

“Send another…”

Even if the rest of the world won’t take them seriously, Japan will still modernize.

He doesn’t have a choice.

* * *

 

 _1919_ _年_ _6_ _月_ _28_ _日_  

Prussia walks over, completely disregarding that he shouldn’t be, and heads directly for France.

Japan blinks, standing next to England. They make eye contact. England appears wary.

America is behind them. Japan has been mediating both his and England’s interactions, and honestly, that’s been exhausting.

“The Great War is over,” Prussia says to France with an exasperated smile. In the background, Hungary and Austria are motioning for him to stop. Germany is standing near them with the other Central Power Nations, appearing extremely anxious.

France refuses to look at Prussia.

Japan fidgets. He and the other Allied and Associated Powers are at Versailles, waiting for a treaty to finish being drafted, one that will solidify the new territories for all the countries involved.

Japan knows the Japanese will be gaining some German colonies. Anything past that is not really of his concern.

Prussia looks annoyed. Japan can feel everyone around him tense up as they brace themselves for him to say something, but—

Instead, he screams.

His presence expands everywhere. France panics. Austria and Hungary sprint over. Germany appears frozen.

“WHAT FUCKING REPARATIONS ARE YOU FORCING GERMANY TO PAY?!” Hungary shouts while Prussia seems to be having a seizure.

France opens and closes his mouth as America frantically points.

“His arm—his arm is dissolving.”

_Oh._

Japan feels a shockwave run through him as France transitions into having a full-blown panic attack.

“DO SOMETHING!” Hungary screams as Austria shakes Prussia frantically.

“DO WHAT?” France responds, his voice cracking.

Austria is yelling nonsense.

Germany vomits blood in the corner of the room.

Prussia’s eyes abruptly fly open, both bright red, and France shoves Austria out of the way.

“Gilbert,” he attempts to say calmly.

“FUCK OFF BAVARIA!” Prussia screams.

His arm stops dissolving and instead starts bleeding, a pool of blood spilling out onto the carpet. His presence fades as he dies.

France rips off his suit jacket and ties it around the upper part of Prussia’s arm to clot the blood. “Austria. Hungary. Come with me. I’m—I’m taking him to another room,” France gets out after he picks Prussia up.

Germany is frantically wiping the blood from his lips. He looks like he’s about to faint. “But we can’t leav—”

“Fucking hell, Ludwig, it doesn’t matter.” France’s voice cracks again. He’s shaking.

When the door slams shut, it feels as though it echoes.

* * *

 

 _“Oh, Ludwig? Yeah, he’s just a little kid right now, formed, uh, right before the German Empire. It’s just him and me now, ha. Uh, you’d like him, Kiku. Your personalities are similar.”_  

* * *

 

 _1937_ _年_ _11_ _月_ _06_ _日_  

Japan watches warily as Italy downs another glass of wine. It’s his fourth one.

Italy glances at him. “What, you want to be sober for this?”

Japan coughs. “I’d rather…I get emotional when I’m drunk, so it wouldn’t be a wise decision for me to drink.”

Italy shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

They barely know each other.

They’re in Berlin, signing the second draft of the Anti-Comintern Pact, now with Italy included. The previous one signed on 1936年11月25日 just involved Germany and Japan.

Japan shifts uncomfortably. He’s standing with Italy in the corner of the room. In the middle is a bunch of mingling government officials.

Germany was with the two of them, but he was whisked away somewhere.

So now they’re alone.

Prussia and Romano are also both here. Japan has no idea where, though.

Italy leans against the wall, tugging at the collar of his military uniform. “It’s stuffy in here.”

Japan nods, taking a sip of his water.

Italy shifts and stares at his wine glass. Japan, meanwhile, studies his hands. He feels a stomachache coming on but tries to ignore it.

_Korea was being beaten for not listening to orders. He sneered at Japan. “WHAT, ARE YOU JUST GOING TO STAND THERE, KIKU?”_

_Someone hit his head so hard that he collapsed. “How dare you—”_

“Are you okay?” Italy asks.

Japan blinks, making eye contact with him. He then smiles. “Yes.”

Italy barks out a laugh, and Japan is taken aback. Some officials look at them, but they quickly glance away.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Japan mumbles.

Italy wipes his eye with his free hand. “Just—wow. I’ve never seen someone pretend as hard as me.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Listen, we both know how awful everything is right now.”

Japan frowns. “It’s not awful. We are signing an agreement that will help deter Soviet Power—”

“Anyway. We both know how awful it is right now.”

“…”

“So want to pretend it’s not?”

Japan’s almost unable to compute that sentence. “What…do you mean?”

Italy sets down his wine glass, staring him dead in the eye. “This is the last time we’ll get serious, okay? German officials hate Prussia because he has a loud mouth, and Germany tells me they’ve been mistreating him. Prussia is also weak, and Germany—Ludwig—is becoming stronger, so that’s a clue he might dissolve at any second. That’s our first piece of shitty news, Japan.”

Japan stutters. “I—”

“Italy is under a fascist dictatorship. Not my top choice, to be honest. Also, I’m still dealing with the fact that all the Nations I once knew in what was ‘Italy’ are fucking dead except for Romano and me, but.” Italy leans in. “Hitler is a creep and Mussolini is near worshipping him. And have you read Hitler’s novel? Because I did.”

Japan feels uncomfortable. Italy isn’t moving away.

“Oh, and don’t get me started on what’s going on in Asia.”

Japan does not want to talk about that.

“Like, how’re your colonizing endeavors going? Your Second Sino-Japanese War? Hmm?” Italy smiles. He leans back. “Romano and I haven’t seen Spain, the Nation, in months, and the last time we saw him, he looked like garbage because of his civil war. And you might wonder why this is important, but that bit of news has Romano constantly acting like he has a stick up his goddamn ass.

“See, he doesn’t like the idea of pretending. He’s constantly criticizing the Nationalists since Spain, Antonio, is on the Republican side. But the Italians support the Nationalists, so Romano is being punished. And since he won’t keep his mouth shut and criticizes our own government too, I have to constantly watch him get mistreated.”

Japan warily stares at him. “So what?”

Italy picks up his glass and raises it. “Life is shit. Our lives as Nations are shit. Let’s pretend they aren’t.”

* * *

 

“Where were you?” Japan asks, slightly tipsy now after Italy kept handing him wine glass after wine glass.

Germany is holding a beer. He looks extremely stiff. “Taking care of matters. Sorry.”

Japan shrugs. His face feels hot from the alcohol. “It’s fine.”

“Were you talking to Italy? He’s nice. I appreciate his company.”

“Yeah, he’s…quite good at keeping the mood happy.”

Germany takes a sip of his drink. “It’s refreshing,” he says into the glass, his voice nearly inaudible.

Japan looks away. “Where’s Prussia?”

“Ah, he. He left early. Oh, Italy, hello.”

Italy walks over, flashing a giant smile. “Germany! Ah, sorry some of my officials wanted to chat. But hey! I’m staying for a few days, so we should tour around the city. What do you recommend?”

“Ah. That—Yes, that sounds fun. I’m just not sure…if it’ll fit into my schedule, though.”

Italy waves his hand. “I’ll convince someone,” he says nonchalantly. “After all, there’s nothing better than a little break from hard work.”

“Of course…”

Japan wanders away to get another glass of wine. At the table, he runs into Romano.

“Oh, hey,” Romano mumbles.

Japan smiles. “Hi.”

“You and Feli seem to have hit it off.”

Japan nods. “Yes. Where were you?”

“With Prussia. And then his officials came over and asked him to go with them, which he refused to do, and then they beat him and dragged away his bloody body. How’s your night been?”

_“WHAT, ARE YOU JUST GOING TO STAND THERE, KIKU?”_

“He should have listened to orders,” is what comes out of Japan’s mouth.

Romano’s expression twists. _“_ You’re disgusting.”

It feels like someone just slapped him.

“I’m not Feliciano. Don’t ever spout that fake shit at me.”

He walks away, leaving Japan to stare at the carpet.

* * *

 

 _1940_ _年_ _12_ _月_ _02_ _日_  

“You apologize to the Führer for speaking out of turn.”

“No,” Prussia spits.

“Well, we wanted to use these Nations for a demonstration, but it looks like we have a new volunteer for today.”

Prussia opens his mouth.

He’s shot in the kneecaps.

His legs buckle. And Japan, after months and months of suppressing his emotions and ignoring what the Axis Powers has been building up to, suddenly feels something inside of him snap.

“See how his eyes are turning red?” Prussia is kicked in the gut. “Nations do that when they’re frightened or angry. Disturbing, right?”

He’s manhandled onto one of the medical beds. He tries to resist. Someone shoots him in the leg. Austria gasps. Germany’s presence has lost control. Romano’s face is twisted with fear and disgust. Italy’s own happy façade has cracked.

Japan desperately tries to keep his face neutral, but he can feel his legs shaking.

No one has ever treated Nations like this. Not like they were animals. Not like—

_Is this next for Yong-Soo?_

_No. No, no, no, no—_

“See how the other Nations are flinching? That’s his presence. Nations use that to sense each other like animals. They can also use it as a means to overwhelm their opponent.”

Prussia is restrained to a medical bed. A gag is stuffed into his mouth. His shirt is ripped off, and something is injected into his arm, and Japan’s vision is blurring, and the smell of the room is suffocating—

“See how we shot him in the knees and he’s no longer bleeding? These freaks have an incredible healing rate.

“They can speak any language, regenerate their limbs, are infertile and are born from nothing. Here, let me show you how fast one of these monster’s body parts can grow back.”

A clamp yanks out Prussia’s eye.

He screams. They chop off his hands. Denmark is sobbing. Austria is gagging. Hungary is staring so blankly it’s frightening.

And Japan. He’s—

_Play pretend. Play pretend. Play—_

Someone slashes Prussia’s stomach open so that his organs are exposed.

Japan nearly throws up.

* * *

 

 _1944_ _年_ _6_ _月_ _15_ _日_  

Japan has a towel on his neck. He’s sitting in his room after giving details of the bombings he saw.

“Are you okay?” Aida asks.

He stares at the floor.

“I’m fine.”

 _Play pretend. Play pretend. Play_  

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s up my name is Maddie and my Chinese midterm is tomorrow. Guess what I did instead of studying
> 
> Writing scenes for this were so hard. Holy fuck shit, I had to do so much research. I had like 40 tabs open 
> 
> [this is the most interesting article I found when researching this chapter](http://hesomagazine.com/japan/a-man-named-hirohito-his-legacy-pop-zeitgeist/). It’s about Emperor Hirohito’s personality and what he was like. It doesn’t have any, like, gross ‘woo imperial japan was great’ shit going on in it either


	5. ihr besitzt mich nicht

_9\. März 1944_

_(9 March 1944)_  

Prussia is dragged down the hallway by the collar of his shirt. He can feel a wound reopening on his leg that he got days ago from an Ally bombing attack on Berlin. He tries to choke back any noise.

“Why are you bringing him?”

“It’s his punishment for making a snide comment.”

“Why is he even stationed here? It seems pointless.”

“The Führer wishes to teach him a lesson. We must respect his orders.”

Prussia is thrown to the ground.

“Stand up,” one of the soldiers hisses.

Prussia feels like a newborn fawn as he does. He can feel the sneers from everyone around him.

One of the guards goes to open the door.

“Wait,” Prussia chokes out, nearly at his breaking point. “Wait. I’ll—I’ll cooperate. I apologize for earlier.” _Please don’t make me do this._

Begging was the wrong thing to do because now everyone is either smirking at him or giving him such a blank expression it’s as if he spoke some alien language.

Prussia can hear people moving around in the other room.

“Please,” he cries, horrified that his voice cracks.

They open the door.

France screams. Prussia is nothing more than a presence to him now, and every time they get close to each other, he always makes such hideous noises.

Prussia’s pushed forward, and the smell is immediately overwhelming. Everyone else puts masks on, while he, instead, is chained to the wall, forced to watch France struggling blindly against his restraints.

“Any organ extractions today?”

“No. We’re going to test out some poisons to see which are the most effective. The Führer wants this information to help speed along the Final Solution.”

Prussia realizes he’s crying. France’s presence is like a stake being pounded into his head. He’s desperately trying to contain his own so France won’t be in more pain, but it’s difficult.

“I’m preparing the first vial.”

“How many milligrams?”

Prussia’s wrists rub against their shackles. He can feel them blistering.

One of the guards laughs. “Look, both of them have red eyes already.”

“I wish the Führer would just accept the Prussian Nation Avatar is defective. At this point, there’s no use in trying to fix him.”

“If only he were as well behaved as the true German one.”

_Defective._

“I’m going to inject the poison.”

France starts thrashing as some Nazis approach him, and Prussia’s head pounds when he screams again. His leg is bleeding. He’s still crying.

_Defective._

France’s throat gargles.

_Is it defective to be against this?_

_Is it defective to hate Hitler and what’s happening to the country?_

France vomits. Prussia suddenly has tunnel vision.

“He’s foaming at the mouth. Record that.”

“I think his eyes are rolling back into his skull.”

_This isn’t my country. Prussia doesn’t exist anymore. This isn’t my—_

_Why couldn’t I prevent this?_

A sob escapes Prussia’s throat. He’s met with a kick in the gut. 

* * *

 

 _3. August 1936_  

Prussia is out of breath. The anxiety choking him is unreal; he’s never experienced anything remotely close to this before.

_No. When Bavaria started dissolving right in front of me, I also—_

“Gilbert,” France hisses. “Where the fuck are we going?”

Prussia is dragging both him and Spain by the arms. France seems extremely wary while Spain has a glazed over look in his eyes, a side effect of his civil war that just started a month ago.

Prussia lets them go and starts pacing back and forth. They’re outside, near the dumpsters of the Berlin Olympic Stadium. The parade of nations is supposed to commence in about thirty minutes, and Spain, France, and Prussia should all be in the ‘Nation Box’ with everyone else.

Should be.

The sun is beating down on them. Despite it, Prussia tries not to shiver.

“Gilbert,” France repeats, looking over his shoulder. His eyes are darting back and forth. “If anyone catches us—”

“I know,” Prussia interrupts. “I know, but—I need to talk to you two. Please.”

Spain starts hacking up blood.

France and Prussia immediately run to his side, but he angrily swats them away. “I’m fine.” He stares at the blood on his hand like it’s a foreign substance; then wipes it on his pants.

“Gilbert,” France says again, tearing his eyes away from Spain. “What do you want to tell us?”

Prussia’s heart is beating in his throat. “I…”

“Is this,” France suddenly turns pale. “Are you under threat for being dissolved again?”

Prussia shakes his head. Spain weakly coughs.

“Then what? Is it something I did? I’m sorry, I know what my country—”

“Francis,” Antonio tries to interject.

“And I don’t understand why you still even like—”

“It’s not that,” Prussia blurts out.

“Then what?”

He realizes he’s almost shaking.

“Gilbert—”

“I’m afraid.”

The world seems to still.

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m terrified of this new government. I’m absolutely fucking terrified and have no idea what to do.”

Spain coughs. “We’ve lived through shitty governments in the past, though.”

Prussia opens his eyes, knowing they have a red tint. “But this is different,” he chokes out. “This is so different.”

France is looking more and more frantic. “Gilbert, what’s going on?”

“Antonio, the reason you’re here is because your Republican elected government wants to get in Hitler’s good graces so that he stops supporting the Nationalist rebels.

“That doesn’t answer—”

“You’re here even though Spain isn’t participating in these fucking games, all because Hitler loves Nations.”

Spain’s eyebrows are pinched together. “I—”

“But I don’t care. You need to get the hell away from Hitler. I don’t fucking care who you support; after this, don’t ever let either side send you here again.” Prussia starts pacing. “I’ve been listening to what Hitler wants to do, and,” he scrambles to get the documents he copied out of his jacket.

France sees the papers and backs up against the wall. “This is treason.”

Prussia feels hysterical. “So? I don’t care about this goddamn country anymore. I care about you two.”

“We can’t go against our governments. We’re—we’re aligned with our country.”

Prussia feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “We’re human beings, Francis. We can do what we want. Just because we represent one country doesn’t mean we have to accept its ideals or government.”

France looks like he’s about to fight him. His presence is expanding. “Put those documents away, Gilbert.”

“No, you need—”

“ _Put those documents away_!”

“Why!?”

“You’ll get in so much fucking trouble if you don’t, that’s why!”

“Guys,” Spain interrupts, his skin pale. “We don’t even know—what information do you want to give us, Gilbert?”

Prussia clenches the paper. “I don’t—it’s just notes I’ve stolen from some meetings. Hitler wants a new war.”

France mouths that sentence while Spain forces out a smile. “Well, I’ve already got that taken care of for him.”

“Yours doesn’t count. He thinks the Germans need more ‘living space’ and wants to eradicate countries where people aren’t of Aryan race.”

Off in the distance, there’s some cheering.

“Excuse me?” France asks slowly.

“Hitler wants to eliminate France.” Prussia’s vision is tunneling. “I have some documents. Just—I don’t know, take them and warn everyone.”

“Gilbert, I—you don’t even know if there’ll be a war!”

Prussia wants to shake him and scream. Instead, he stares at the ground. “Fine. Maybe there won’t be. But Hitler, God, he has this— _obsession_ with Nations, and maybe your government can stop him.”

“We’ve had leaders like that in the past, though,” Spain says, trying his best to sound positive. He nearly coughs. “And we’ve still survived.”

Prussia raises his head. “Hitler wants to find out how Nations can benefit the human race.”

“Okay, but—”

“He thinks we’re nothing more than animals!” Prussia is trembling. “He wants to use us in experiments! God, he—he wants to experiment on so many people he considers less than him.”

Prussia can feel France trying to contain his presence. “Then—then can _you_ do something about it?”

“What, murder him?”

“ _No._ Shit, don’t do that, but—”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t. He’s always surrounded by guards. Ludwig is with him all the time. Ludwig would stop me.” _Because he’s been raised to respect authority without question and probably wouldn’t want me to do anything brash since that’s what I always—_

“Then what do you want us to do?” Spain asks.

Prussia tries to shove the documents at France. He backs up. “I’m not helping you commit treason, Gilbert. I’m not—I’m not going to let you suffer any repercussions.”

“ _Francis_.”

Spain takes the documents.

Prussia feels defeated. “You’re in a Civil War,” he mumbles. “They’re useless with you.”

“I have contacts with the Italian mafia.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Prussia spits, knowing he’s being irrational at this point.

Spain fidgets. “I—Lovi set it up. We talk to each other that way and exchange information.”

“ _Why_?” France asks.

Spain’s voice is distant. “You know why.”

Now is not the time Prussia wants to be talking about love interests or sexualities. He feels pissed and scared. “You fucking him? Cool. Can we—”

“You’re _what_?”

Prussia ignores France’s comment. “Francis, please just take the doc—”

“Lovi can help us exchange information,” Spain blurts out. Prussia freezes. “That’s why I brought it up, okay?”

France swallows. “Antonio, you and Romano are committing treason. You two have been committing treason.”

Spain’s forehead is slick with sweat. “Francis we—we’ve been breaking the ‘rules’ since the beginning of our existence.” His eyes slide to Prussia. “So if any of us are in danger, we’ll help each other out as people—as humans. That’s what you want, Gilbert, right?”

Prussia’s mouth is dry. “I—yeah. I want you two to be safe. So the documents, please, Francis.” _I’m so afraid. Please._

“I can’t,” France whispers.

Spain pockets the papers. “I’ll set up a way to exchange information.” His voice is soft; as if he’s talking to a child. It makes Prussia’s skin crawl. “I’ll discuss this with Lovi.” He then flashes such a fake grin it makes Prussia’s stomach hurt. “But maybe Francis is right, and you’re overreacting about this, Gilbert.”

Prussia fidgets. “But—”

“YOU THREE!”

Prussia feels his stomach drop. The fear that climbs up his throat almost suffocates him.

A Nazi security guard approaches them, red in the face. “What the hell are you Nations doing here?”

Prussia’s eyes immediately drop to the gun attached to his hip.

_“Do you need me to teach you another lesson?” someone whispered into his ear._

Prussia tries to swallow. He can feel both Spain and France staring at him.

_“Keep disobeying, and Germany will end up in your position. Now you don’t want that, do you?”_

_Germany was in the room._

_“No,” Prussia choked out._

Spain coughs. “It’s my fault,” he says in German.

Prussia’s eyes shoot to him just as the Nazi frowns.

“I had a coughing attack.” Spain beams. “They took me away from everyone so I wouldn’t be a disturbance. Sorry.”

_“Just an apology isn’t enough, Prussia!”_

Prussia’s heartbeat picks up. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as the guard twitches.

“Fine,” he eventually says. “Let me escort you three back to the Nation box, then.”

Prussia follows him, trying to control himself from shaking, trying to ignore France and Spain’s expressions of what could be either pity or bafflement or maybe both.

The Nation box is packed when they get there.

Germany, who’s with Austria and Hungary, stands up immediately when he sees Prussia.

_Don’t make a scene, Ludwig. Please._

Italy and Romano, also sitting nearby, look at them. Romano locks eyes with Prussia. Prussia quickly glances at the ground.

The guard pushes the three of them into the room. “Don’t leave. The Führer is coming soon.”

Prussia releases a breath as soon as the door closes. There are around 50 other Nations in the room, and it feels like all of them are scrutinizing him.

“Prussia, when is the Opening Ceremony going to start?” Italy loudly asks. He flashes a grin. It’s faker than the one Spain had earlier.

Prussia plays along because he doesn’t have a choice. “I think in around fifteen minutes? Everyone seemed to be getting into place when Francis, Antonio, and I took a walk.”

Germany visibly flinches at his use of their human names, and Prussia grits his teeth. He walks closer to everyone, Spain and France trailing him.

The conversations in the room have resumed, so the tension is no longer unbearable.

Prussia is still terrified.

It isn’t Germany who approaches him first, but Austria.

“Prussia, where were you?” he asks through clenched teeth. “Germany was extremely worried.”

“No human name today, Specs? I see how it is,” is what comes out of Prussia’s mouth.

Austria looks livid. Hungary shoves them apart. “You two need to relax. He’s here now, Austria.”

Hungary usually calls Austria ‘Roderich’ unless she’s pissed off at him, and Prussia frowns. “Did Ludwig put you two up to this?”

“Put us up to what?”

“Come on, Liz. You don’t—”

“Ludwig just wants you to be safe,” Hungary hisses. “So if it’s better to use Nation names right now, then just use them.”

A bitter taste fills Prussia’s mouth. Despite everything, despite his own fear and anxiety, he’s not going to do that. “I—”

Italy hits his arm so hard he almost flinches. Out of the corner of Prussia’s eye, he sees Spain talking to Romano, and France chatting with Belgium, Netherlands, and Luxembourg.

Italy smiles. “Germany was saying how maybe we could go out to dinner later. Wouldn’t that be fun!?”

Prussia wishes he could suppress his fear that easily. He smiles, knows it looks forced when Italy frowns, and rubs his face. “I guess.”

Germany is hovering near them now, scanning Prussia over. “You should come.”

“Nah.”

“We should all go,” Hungary says, tugging at his sleeve.

He snatches back his arm. “They wouldn’t let me.”

Italy waves his hand. “I could easily—”

“It’s fine.”

Austria is standing next to Prussia, and he hovers between feeling an intense irritation and a sudden desire to touch him, so much so that it’s infuriating.

Italy frowns and opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s cut off by Scotland barking out a laugh at Northern Ireland. The kid looks like he’s about to cry, and India cuts off his conversation with China and South Africa to tell Scotland how much of an asshole he is.

“What were you talking about with Spain and France?” Austria breathes into Prussia’s ear while everyone else is distracted.

He squirms. Austria’s fate, unlike Spain and France’s, is sealed. He’s under Hitler’s influence. He can’t escape. Those two can, though, and Prussia wants to give them a chance, no matter how risky it may be.

He refuses to jeopardize Austria’s safety, though.

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

Austria is in a pissy mood. “I know you’re lying.”

Prussia opens his mouth.

“And avoiding me. You’ve been with them all day.”

“Sorry, _darling_ ,” Prussia sneers, twisting his head to make eye contact. He blinks in surprise, though, when he sees Austria’s flushed cheeks.

Prussia almost forgets the political situation of his country as his own confusing feelings threaten to get overwhelming.

“Are you jealous?” he teases, almost feeling like his normal self.

“No,” Austria responds instantly, backing away.

“You had Liz all to yourself while I was gone, though, so I should be the jealous one.”

“I’ve already had her to myself for years.”

“Ouch. Rub it in.”

The tension relaxes in Austria’s shoulders, but his face is still stony. “You’re not going to tell me what you told those two.”

“Nope.”

“And you’re not going to tell Germany either.”

“Definitely not.”

Austria pinches the bridge of his nose. “You think you’re protecting us, but all you’re doing is making a mess out of everything.”

“…”

“Why are you so much more open with Spain and France?”

Prussia squirms.

Austria sighs dramatically, something he always does when frustrated. “Fine. Don’t answer me.”

Prussia looks away.

“Can I at least talk to you?”

“About what?”

“How you’re doing.”

“That’s a stupid topic.”

Austria frowns. “Then let me explain; Ludwig looked like he was about to cry when he told Elizabeta and I that your government has been mistreating you.”

Prussia feels like someone has punched him in the gut. His anxiety from earlier comes crashing back as his eyes dart around. No one is there. No one should be paying attention to them.

“Gilbert?” Austria asks, his voice laced with concern.

“When? How—Where did he tell you? Were there people around?”

“What? No. He—He pulled us to the side. He wouldn’t give us any details—Gilbert, what the hell is going on? What are they doing to you?”

Prussia forces out a grin. He’s shaking. “Nothing.”

Austria’s expression is broken. He blindly reaches for Prussia’s hand. “What have they done to you?”

Prussia suddenly wants to be held in his arms, thinks he’s hilarious for even dreaming that could happen, backs up into Hungary, who frowns and tells him his presence is expanding, feels his vision get blurry as he widely looks around the room for no solid reason, sees Japan stop his conversation with Greece to give him a blank stare like he _knows_ , stumbles—

The door opens.

Prussia makes eye contact with Hitler and freezes. Germany, meanwhile, breaks off his conversation with Hungary and Italy to do the fucking Nazi salute. Prussia would rather die than humiliate himself like that.

“Prussia,” one of Hitler’s bodyguards snaps.

He feels bile in the back of his throat. Everyone is staring at him.

One of the guards cocks his gun.

Austria elbows Prussia hard in the ribs as Germany shoots him a threatening glance.

Prussia does the Nazi salute.

Hitler saunters into the room. “So many Nations in one place. How fascinating…” He looks around as if they’re all animals to gawk at. “Some so old it’s incomprehensible.” He passes by China, who has an utterly blank expression. “And most of them men…” He’s staring at Liechtenstein. Switzerland looks like he’s one second away from grabbing her out of sight.

Hitler then abruptly walks over to where Prussia and Austria are standing and touches Austria’s arm. “Who knew Nations could also be so delicate looking?”

Austria’s eyes shoot to his hand, then frantically back to Prussia’s face. Hitler’s touching him like he’s examining a piece of meat.

“But you don’t look Aryan,” he mutters, finally stepping away. “Far from it, actually. How disgraceful; especially with your last name.”

Prussia wants to scream.

“An Albino. Someone who has Jewish features. At least the German Nation Avatar is our true representative.”

Austria’s eyes widen, and Prussia is two seconds away from pummeling Hitler to the ground when Germany restrains him.

“The games are starting soon. I hope all of you enjoy,” Hitler says, completely ignoring what just happened. Everyone else is utterly frozen, and Prussia wants nothing more than to scream.

Hitler smiles and walks out. He was only in there for a maximum of three minutes, but it feels as though hours have gone by.

Germany lets go of Prussia as soon as the door shuts.

“Do I look Jewish?” Austria whispers.

Prussia stares at the ground, feeling humiliated. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I—”

Prussia makes eye contact with France, losing track of what Austria is saying.

Before he can beg him again to take the documents, though, Spain steps in front of them. Austria abruptly stops talking. “Hey, let’s go up to the window to get a better view!” He then leans in and breathes into Prussia’s ear. “I’m going to set something up with Lovino, Gilbert. Don’t worry.”

Prussia wants to cry as Spain guides both him and Austria to the front, leaving Germany behind, who hasn’t even moved since Hitler left. Hungary is already by the window. She smiles. Off to the side, America, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand are pestering England. Italy starts talking loudly about sports. Romano mutters a few quips. Netherlands grabs some of the free alcohol and starts downing it while Belgium and Luxembourg reprimand him. Scotland pesters Wales. Denmark eats a small pastry and nearly chokes on it so that Norway has to hit his back.

P̷r͘us̕si͝a’s v̸is͠i҉o̕n b̵lur̡s͏.

_Could I have done something—given Elizabeta documents or told Roderich more about what I wanted to do? Slap Hitler’s hands away and predict what his comment about Roderich would mean? Should I have comforted Ludwig? Would that have made a difference?_

_God, I haven’t seen him in so long._

_Him ever since I was sent here, Roderich ever since Hitler started forcing cosmetic surgery on him,_ _Elizabeta since she was displayed to all the Axis leaders. And Francis—_

_9\. März 1944_

_(9 March 1944)_

Prussia blinks, lifting his head. France’s presence is gone. The poison killed him.

_“I’m going to set something up with Lovino, Gilbert, don’t worry.”_

Prussia starts shaking. He saw Spain a year ago now, and it was then that he gave Prussia the information of how to contact one another.

He’s been too afraid to do anything with it.

Prussia is released from his shackles, and he collapses to the ground, drenched in sweat. One of the Nazi’s kicks him.

 _How can I be defective if this isn’t my country?_ _Prussia doesn’t exist anymore._ _I’m not committing treason if I disobey._

His breath catches as they force him to his feet.

_I haven’t seen Ludwig or Roderich in so long. They won’t be punished for my actions._

He’s forced out of the room and down the hallway.

_This isn’t my country._

His surroundings blur past him

_I have to seize the chance. I have to help at least one person._

He nearly breaks into tears as they lug him up the stairs.

_This isn’t my country._

The Nazis sneer at him. Prussia stares at the ground.

He knows what he has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by [rroseselavy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rroseselavy/pseuds/rroseselavy) ty my dude
> 
> hey im ready to come back to the us now alskdfajlkdfalk still about 2 more weeks in China
> 
> many scenes from this chapter were daydreamed 5 years ago, so look. it's finally written out. 
> 
> just a few song notes :o lately i've been thinking of [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbCeyb9okac) as one of the main themes of this fic, but also [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpSZ5cL6RZM)
> 
> that's p much it. ur girl is going to a fucking hetalia shanghai convention on saturday, and the train ride is 5 hours long, so maybe I'll have time to write then


	6. Summer Heat

_29 June 1944_

“But wouldn’t it make more sense for us to be involved in the efforts to take back France? We’re just sitting around doing nothing.”

England’s advisor frowns. “It’s safer for you to be here. Besides, these are orders directly from Churchill himself.”

England clenches his jaw.

“There are worse places to be than Buckingham Palace.”

“We’re bored.”

“Then find ways to entertain yourselves.” His advisor turns around. “You’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t hurry up.”

England gives him a nasty glare; then walks away.

_Well, I tried. Now Russia will stop asking me._

They’ve been doing nothing for two weeks, and they’re all getting restless. Every day, England asks for updates about the war. His advisors are getting annoyed. He doesn’t care.

They still haven’t found Francis.

_And they won’t unless one of us can sense him._

_But maybe he’s not there._

_No. No, he’s somewhere in France. We’re close to finding him._

_What if he’s Hitler’s maid, though?_

England tries to shake those thoughts out of his head, only to pause when he remembers how terrified Prussia seemed when he looked at Hitler.

_What if it’s worse than that?_

England quickly walks into the room across from the kitchen. America is complaining.

“This shit is like gruel!”

“Quit whining and just eat it,” Russia sneers.

“How come China gets to eat something different!?” America notices England at the doorway and dramatically pouts. “ _England_.”

He feels himself smiling. “What’s the food today?”

“Some Russian shit.”

Russia glares. “You act as if the English food isn’t complete garbage.”

China sets down his chopsticks and pushes his plate to the side. “What did your advisor tell you?”

England takes a seat next to America, who pushes the bowl in front of him. “Nothing. We still have to stay here.”

China sighs. Russia frowns. America groans.

England takes a spoonful of the kasha.

It does taste awful.

* * *

 

England’s lungs are burning. He grips his racquet tighter as Russia hits the ball back over the net.

“Out,” America calls after he lunges for it and misses.

England drops his racquet, putting his hands on his knees and attempting to take a deep breath.

“It is very hot,” he hears Russia mumble. He looks up. Russia’s face is red from the heat, and his bangs are drenched in sweat.

England stands up straight. “America, play him. I need a rest.”

America blinks. He’s next to China on some bleachers, under an umbrella. “I suck at tennis.”

England cannot have Russia win the most matches. “Nonsense. Come here.”

America frowns. England stares at him. Russia dabs his forehead with his shirt.

America warily stands. “Alright, fine. I’ll try.”

They switch places, England handing him his racquet as they pass each other.

Russia drops his shirt. “I’ll serve.”

“Oh boy,” America mutters.

England sits down next to China, noticing that he’s reading something.

Russia serves. America misses the ball by a long shot.

“What book is that?” England asks.

China doesn’t look up. “A detective novel.”

Russia serves again. America hits the ball this time, but it lands completely out of bounds.

“What novel?” England asks, feeling surprised. “I didn’t know you liked mysteries.”

“Surprisingly, we have many genres of literature in China, and mysteries are one.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure.”

Russia serves. America hits himself in the face.

England tries to glance at the cover. China side-eyes him; then closes the book so he can see it.

“Shi Gong'an,” England reads.

China looks away. “Yeah. It’s older.”

“Is it good?”

China flips open the book again. “It’s better than any philosophical work I have memorized.”

England looks away, stretching and enjoying the breeze that just picked up. Though he’s happy the sun’s out, it is making it quite hot.

_Leon liked mystery novels._

England sits up straight. His armpits suddenly feel gross.

_Maybe he’s Hirohito’s maid. He’s fine. He’s fine—_

_“You can’t do this twice! You can’t sell me out like_ him _!”_

_“Hong Kong, please calm down. There is no other way.”_

_“There is another way! Keep me here!” Hong Kong shrieked. “Keep me in London!”_

_England was standing with Scotland and Wales as guards restrained Hong Kong. He couldn’t make eye contact. His ears were ringing._ _He knew Hong Kong was under threat, but—_

_“We can’t. I’m sorry,” England’s advisor said, zero emotion in his voice._

_Northern Ireland began crying in the corner as guards tightened their grip on Hong Kong’s arms. Hong Kong started panicking._

_“Arthur!”_

England squeezes his eyes shut.

_“Arthur, please. No—Alistair! Dylan! Please. No no no—”_

_“Shoot him!”_

“Why is your presence expanding?” China asks.

England opens his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth.

China nods to the tennis court. “Your colony is losing awfully.”

Ah. More bitterness. England opens his mouth to make a comment, but he’s cut off by America throwing up his hands.

“Okay, screw this! I’m serving,” he yells after he misses another ball.

Russia coughs. “Can you even serve?”

“Shut up.”

England looks off to the side as China watches them.

 _“You can’t sell me out like_  him _!”_

_France’s face was broken. “Gilbert was right.”_

_No._ No, England refuses to let himself think about that sentence.

Instead, he watches America and Russia. America throws the ball in the air but misses it when he swings. Russia snickers. America bristles. Russia then dabs his forehead, only just to get annoyed and take off his shirt.

England picks at his cuticle. _Don’t think about Leon or Francis. Distract yourself._

_To do list: Ask when Matthew is coming back to London. Teach Alfred how to play tennis. Read over those documents. Get some new novels; maybe China has some extra. I do like mysteries._

England looks up and glances at him, blinking when he sees how still he is. He follows China’s line of gaze and sees him staring at Russia’s shirtless figure.

America finally serves the ball. Russia effortlessly hits it back.

England waits for China to move. Instead, he swallows.

England’s chest feels weird. Seeing them interact is weird. It’s almost as if they’re performing a dance around each other. It fascinates him. He’s frightened because of that.

He clears his throat, and China jumps, his eyes moving to look at him. “What?”

“Do you have any extra novels you wouldn’t mind sharing?”

“You don’t have any British ones?” he asks flatly.

“Well, I—”

After having Russia score a point for the 20th time in a row, America shrieks. He then picks up the ball and serves it so hard that it creates a sudden loud noise.

“What the fuck!?” Russia exclaims.

England stands up to get a better view. America’s racquet is snapped in half, and on Russia’s side of the court, there’s a hole in the ground.

“Were you trying to kill me?” Russia asks in disbelief.

America looks dazed. “No?”

Even China appears taken aback. “How much strength did you put behind that?”

“I don’t…”

“Even I couldn’t hit it that hard.” Russia rubs his face and grabs his shirt. “I win.”

England walks up to America just as Russia leaves the court. America frowns, then takes off his glasses to wipe his face. “Fuck. Sorry, England.”

“It’s fine. I’ll…tell someone.”

America pinches his nose, looking upset.

England touches his shoulder. It’s hot and sticky. It makes his chest feel weird, but he ignores it as usual. “Alfred, it’s fine.”

“…”

“How much power did you put behind it; seriously?”

“It came out of nowhere, Arthur. I don’t know.”

England tries not to think about how ominous that sounds.

* * *

 

He lets the hot water fall over him, his eyes glazed over.

 _“You can’t sell me out like_  him _!”_

_“Gilbert was right.”_

He leans his head against the wall.

A few days ago, he tried asking China about what the Japanese are doing with their Nations, but China gave him a tight smile and politely informed him that he had no idea.

_“If anything, you would know. Weren’t British and Japanese relations close once?”_

_England was taken aback. “Yes, but…Japan and I never discussed anything about the Japanese colonies.”_

_China turned away. “That seems like Kiku.”_

England shuts off the water.

It’s just past 1 PM, and he’s starving. He doesn’t think he can bear staying at the Palace, though. He needs to get out and clear his mind.

After drying off and putting on clean clothing, he heads to the lounge where he and America agreed to meet up when they were both done showering.

He’s absentmindedly walking until he nears the entrance to the courtyard.

Someone is speaking French.

He pauses, straining to hear as his heart rate increases,

“…in Australia with the other three. They’ll be coming back here in two weeks time, along with the rest of the UK.”

“You’ve been informed about the leads, then?”

Before the other man responds, they notice England standing there.

England turns away, fighting the almost laughable urge to cry. One of the men speaking French is his own advisor. The other is Canada’s, a man from the French side.

England’s advisor looks bored. “Anything you need?” he asks in English.

England digs his nails into his palm. “Who’s in Australia?”

“Canada with India, Australia, and New Zealand,” Canada’s advisor responds, his English accent having no trace of the French. “I’m here just to give updates.”

England doesn’t care why he’s here. “Ah.”

“Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland will be coming here in two weeks with the other four,” his advisor explains. England tries not to let any expression of disgust cross his face. “To centralize everyone.”

“So America, Russia, and China aren’t leaving anytime soon?”

“I’m afraid not.”

England looks away. “I’m going out for lunch.”

“Just tell security.”

“There’s also a hole in the tennis court.”

“Excuse me?”

He walks away at a brisk pace. Having Canada, Australia, and New Zealand at the Palace sounds nice. India, though, will probably just be miserable and sulk in the corner, especially now that Hong Kong is in bloody Japan and South Africa has independence. And then Northern Ireland will cry, and Scotland will be his insufferable self, and Wales will stare judgmentally.

It feels hard to breathe. He makes it to the lounge, only to find America passed out on one of the couches.

England tries to take a deep breath, but his chest feels even tighter. He walks over and brushes America’s bangs to the side; then leaves, trying to ignore the black specks in the corner of his vision.

* * *

 

It’s not as hot as it was earlier since the sky’s partly cloudy now.

England walks with his hands in his pockets, not really going anywhere, not feeling too hungry anymore.

His vision blurs as he sees all the propaganda posters. His stomach feels sick as he sees the damage left over from the air raids. He feels weak. He’s tired.

He sits down on a dirty bench. There’s a bar across from it, but he averts his gaze.

He feels guilty about what happened to Hong Kong and feels even guiltier for feeling guilty in the first place. Their relationship was never great. Ever since the American Revolution, England has been utter shit at forming bonds with his other colonies. The closest he’s to is Canada, but it’s nothing like what he and America had at one point. He’s even more distant with Australia. New Zealand is worse than that. And then there’s South Africa and India, who hate him. But those two were alive before the British came. They already hated him from first glance.

Hong Kong, though, came into existence with the island’s British colonization. And he was so tiny and had the mind of a child when England first met him.

It made him nauseous.

He was affectionate. He wanted his attention. Called him Arthur. Cuddled with him. Even Australia and New Zealand didn’t show that much love.

He was too much like America.

America, the first Nation to treat him like a human, to make him feel like Arthur Kirkland was worth something, then strip that all away and point a gun at his face.

So England became nasty to Hong Kong and even nastier when it was decided that he was ‘one of the chosen colonies’ important enough to live in London. He ignored him, shunned him, and Hong Kong grew close to South Africa and India instead. But then South Africa got independence, so he was gone, and India was demanding it, so he was no longer forced to live in London.

Even then, England couldn’t be nice to Hong Kong. Even after he and America finally made up, he couldn’t show a _morsel_ of compassion, and he hates himself. He hates how he let Hong Kong be dragged away after being shot in the  _head_ , hates how he, Scotland, and Wales went drinking afterward and didn’t even acknowledge what happened.

The bar in front of him seems ominous.

He did the same with France, almost four years ago to this date. He let him be dragged away and did nothing. And afterward—England almost laughs hysterically—afterward, he went and had a fucking drink too.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to prevent any tears from welling up. Time passes. People come and go. It’s calm. It’s almost like there isn’t a war going on.

He opens his eyes and walks to the bar.

* * *

 

_13 June 1940_

Paul Reynaud, the Prime Minister of France, is antsy. “The agreement I made with Prime Minister Chamberlain in March of 1940 needs to be nulled. German troops are to invade Paris any day now, and France must seek an armistice. The French people shouldn’t have to suffer any longer.”

England can barely breathe. He tries to make eye contact with France, but he avoids his gaze, and all England can do is stare. Stare at his sunken in eyes, and his bruised cheek, and the blood splatters staining his shirt.

Churchill frowns. “I understand why you feel the need to go down this path. I do not agree with it, but nevertheless, I won’t force you to fight a war you don’t want to, provided we reach an arrangement on what is to happen to the French fleet.”

Reynaud is sweating. “Of course.”

England and France are dismissed before their leaders discuss the details. Maybe it’s because they both look awful. Maybe their officials don’t want to deal with France’s coughing anymore. Regardless, England is happy for the alone time.

He sits down with two cups of tea. They’re in a small sitting room, at a table. It’s cosy. Things almost feel normal. Why can’t things just be fucking _normal_?

“It will make you feel better,” England insists when France averts eye contact.

He miserably looks at him.

“Here,” England adds some sugar to the tea. He knows France hates when it’s bitter. “Just try and drink—”

“They’re going to destroy France, Arthur.”

England freezes. France coughs into his handkerchief.

“They’re not going to destroy it,” he responds, feeling lightheaded. “An armistice doesn’t mean they’re going to destroy France. And it’ll be fine. Charles de Gaulle is denouncing this. We think they’re going to set up an interim government in London. You can stay there. You’ll be safe.”

France cracks a smile, the bags under his eyes becoming more pronounced. “At one point you would call something like that cowardice.”

“Well, it’s not,” England snaps. “And you’ll be fine. We’ll use that government as a resistance force. We’ll fight back against Germany. You’ll stay in London.”

“Arthur, you know I can’t.”

“If you’re with your government, you can!”

France blinks, and England is horrified to find that he’s near tears. He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

France grabs the cup of tea. “It’s not my government. You know that, Arthur. My government is here, and they want to stop fighting.”

_Stop saying my name. Stop sounding so broken. Stop affecting me like this._

“I’m sorry Britain will be left to fend for itself,” France almost whispers.

England is in denial. “We’ll gather troops from our colonies, and the French will regroup. We’ll take Germany down. You’ll stay in London and help with that.”

France gives him such a sad smile. In the past, they would have argued. That would have been welcomed. That would have been normal and comforting.

Instead, all France says is, “Okay.”

* * *

 

_18 June 1940_

England begged. He had pathetically begged his officials, begged the bloody Prime Minister, to at least wait in France before the armistice was signed. _Maybe the French would change their minds_ , he argued.

Paris was invaded on the 14th with ease. The French government had already abandoned it, after all.

England has been with France since, and all France did during the invasion was bleed and cry. This is not the man England knows. Seeing him like this is driving a stake into his heart.

Yesterday, what remained of the French government in Bordeaux officially requested an armistice. Here in the city of Tours, England wanted to scream and break things and cry.

France didn’t do any of those, though. He just laid in bed all day without saying a word.

Now, they’re eating breakfast. The silence is suffocating.

England is on his third cup of tea when the door opens. His advisor, France’s, and a couple of soldiers are there.

“Could you two come with us?” one of them asks.

England complies, his legs feeling heavy. France follows and coughs almost the entire way.

They end up outside where there are a bunch of people gathered, both French and British officials, and England tenses up. The only French present are those who want an armistice.

Since England begged British officials to stay in Tours, over the past week they’ve been helping Free France organize the interim government. And England has been insisting for that group to claim their Nation Avatar, so for a moment, he allows himself to hope that this is why he and France have been called out here. Maybe these government members are relinquishing their ownership of him.

But just as England’s officials tell him to follow them, France is grabbed from behind.

“What are you—” Before England can finish, he’s also restrained.

“The Germans won’t accept an armistice unless the French Nation Avatar is handed over,” Reynaud says, his expression stony. “So we are complying with their wishes.”

Time seems to still, and France has such genuine _fear_ in his eyes that England can’t help but act out. He knows he shouldn’t. He hasn’t in all the centuries he’s been alive. He used to hate France too. God, he _despised_ him. But now, he can’t—

_No no no no no no—_

“Gilbert was right,” France breathes. He laughs. It turns hysterical, and when England fights against those holding him back, they threaten to shoot him.

“Let’s go,” one of his officials says.

“No. No, wait!” England begs.

“Keep moving.”

France is crying. “Arthur.”

“ _Francis_.”

France smiles. “I should have listened to him.”

His voice fades as England is shoved back inside.

“He was right.”

* * *

 

* * *

 

_22 June 1940_

“France has officially agreed to the armistice.”

Everyone is silent.

“We’ll regroup from here.” With that, Churchill leaves.

“Pussies,” Scotland growls under his breath.

_“Gilbert was right.”_

Canada puts his hand on England’s shoulder. He jumps. Canada smiles miserably.

“You tried your best, Arthur.”

That sentence is enough to make him break down in front of everyone.

* * *

 

_24 December 1941_

England is sitting on his bed in shock. They didn’t tell him Hong Kong was surrendering to the Japanese. They didn’t _tell him_ they would need the Nation Avatar to bargain for a more favourable outcome.

They traded him. They didn’t have to, but they traded him to get some British POW’s.

England chucks his mug across the room. The night was actually going well. They were drinking eggnog, and he was getting along with Wales and Scotland, and Northern Ireland was talking to Hong Kong, happily. They were all happy!

 _“You can’t sell me out like_ him _!”_

They shot Hong Kong in the head. They shot him in the head, dragged out his body; then told them to go back to celebrating.

England blindly goes to pick up the glass shards, only to pause when he sees Hong Kong’s Christmas presents tucked in the corner. Modest gifts. Not much, but after the stress of the war, he was trying to be nicer.

England collapses, trying to hold back tears.

_The Americans have joined the war. We’ll get Leon back._

_And Francis—_

He buries his face into his hands just as Wales opens the door.

“Arthur.”

“What?” England spits.

“Let’s go drinking.”

* * *

 

_29 June 1944_

He’s drunk, and it’s only 3 PM.

He stumbles down the street, nearly falling into several people, and gets disgusted with himself. At the same time, his head being foggy feels like bliss.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to reach Buckingham Palace. He can’t remember talking to any of the guards, but suddenly, America is leading him back inside.

“You only drink this early when you’re really upset,” he eventually mutters when they’re at England’s room.

“’m fine,” England protests.

America pushes him onto the bed.

England blinks, staring at his figure.

America turns to leave.

“No,” he chokes out, sitting up and extending his arm. America pauses. “Stay. Stay here. Please.”

America sighs and joins him on the bed.

England immediately hugs him. He bristles at first; then relaxes.

“You’re so warm,” England mumbles.

“I just lugged you here. That’s why.”

“You’re always so warm.”

“England, you’re drunk. You know I hate it when you’re like this.”

He tightens his grip. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you…”

“I’ll protect you. I’ll.” He hiccups.

“I’m not a kid that needs protection.”

England feels irrationally angry. He shoves America away. “France—Francis. He said! He said he didn’t need protection, and where is he now, Alfred!?”

America appears taken aback. “Arthur.”

At the use of his name and the way America says it, England starts sobbing.

America freaks out. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Here. England.” He hugs him. “We’re liberating France, okay? Francis will be found soon.”

“He was terrified,” England whispers. “He was terrified, and I let him be taken away. They were both terrified. It happened _twice_ , and I couldn’t do anything.”

America rubs his back, and England leans into the touch, yearning for something indescribable.

They stay like that for a while until he calms down.

“England,” America eventually murmurs. “You should sleep this off. You’re drunk.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” America lays him down and tucks him in. “Not again.”

England closes his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent way too much time googling for the novel China was reading. Here: 施公案
> 
> art commissioned from marinovannyeogurchiki.tumblr.com


	7. боль

 30 июня 1944 года

_（30 June 1944）_

Gunshots. Fire. People screaming.

A soldier holds a gun to his head—

…

Russia opens his eyes.

Discomfort washes over him, and he sighs and sits up, rubbing his face. Immediately, a sharp pain runs through his back, and he bites down on his tongue to prevent himself from crying out.

He stumbles out of bed. The room is still pitch black, so he blindly reaches for the lamp, then blinks rapidly when it turns on. The sheets are stained with blood. So is his nightshirt.

The cut seems scabbed over now, but a large group of soldiers must have died to cause it, or maybe just Russians in general. Either way, the dream doesn’t help decipher anything. It and the others he’s been having are incoherent, causing him to wake up every night at the same damn time.

Usually not in his own blood, though.

He takes off his nightshirt, his entire body aching in the process, and chucks it on the bed. He then gathers all the sheets and throws them on the floor.

He remembers the nodding tour guide telling him there was a closet where he could get extra blankets. Not that he remembers where since he wasn’t paying attention at that point, but. Feeling a foul taste in his mouth, he opens his door and waits for his eyes to adjust. It’s quiet considering most normal people aren’t up at three in the morning.

Russia blindly looks around. He doesn’t want to open every door to try to find this damn closet, but he’s also incapable of sleeping without at least one blanket thrown over him.

He decides to do the next logical thing—walking aimlessly.

He still can’t believe America tried to kill him. Maybe not on purpose, but he certainly had enough murderous intent to put a fucking hole in the court.

Russia rubs his face. He didn’t realize the kid was that strong, and it certainly confirms some of the ominous shit Soviet intelligence has learned.

He doesn’t want to think about anything involving the war, though.

_“Don’t worry, Ivan.” Ukraine smiled. “Okay? We’re strong. You’re strong. We’ll get through this.”_

Russia stops.

_“I love you.”_

He squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to return to Moscow. God, he’s so sick of London—

“Ivan?”

Russia nearly has a heart attack at the sound of China’s voice. His eyes fling open. “Yao, you’re—you’re awake.”

China dully yawns. “Yeah. I have trouble sleeping at night because that’s when there’s the most activity going on back home.” He coughs. “Why are you up?”

“I always am at this time,” Russia mumbles, looking away.

China is suddenly touching his arm, and Russia can feel his skin break out into goosebumps.

“Your back is a mess…”

Russia remembers he’s shirtless and flushes. It was one thing when he was drenched in sweat on the tennis court, but this? This feels weird. He tries to back away, but China follows him.

“Yao, it’s fine.” His voice cracks.

China frowns.

“It’s not bleeding anymore. I just—I need new sheets.”

“Well, if you want them then this is not the direction you should be heading.”

Russia’s heart is in his throat. “Oh.”

“Here, let me show you where they are.” China drags his hand down Russia’s arm; then pulls away.

Russia feels like he’s going insane, feels like China  _knows_  how screwed up his emotions are and is toying with him. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know if he’s just imagining it and wanting something between them so fucking bad that his mind is playing tricks on him.

They walk in silence, eventually returning to the hallway where the bedrooms are. China opens a far door, and in it are blankets.

Russia is ready to retreat to his room. “Thank you. Here, I can—”

China isn’t facing him. “Let me help you make the bed.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Ivan.”

Russia hates himself for being so weak. He rubs his arm and walks back to his room, China following.

They make the bed in silence, the dull light from the lamp illuminating their figures.

China faces him when they finish. “Let me clean up your back.”

“I can do that myself,” Russia answers quickly, but the sentence is barely out of his mouth before he leaves.

Russia has no idea what to do. He sits down on the bed, feeling lightheaded.

China comes back a few minutes later with a towel and a bucket of warm water; then sits down next to Russia and tells him to turn away. Sucking in some air, Russia complies.

China gently wipes his back. “I still can’t believe how hard America hit that ball.”

Russia swallows, trying to do everything in his power not to shiver.

“But power balances are shifting, so…”

“Yao, what are we doing?” Russia begs for him to understand, twisting his head to make eye contact. China’s face is void of any emotion.

He drops the towel into the bucket. “Your back is clean.”

“Thank you,” Russia quickly says, but China doesn’t leave. Instead, he stays next to him.

They sit there for what feels like hours. It’s probably only a few minutes.

“I’m homesick,” China eventually murmurs.

Russia fidgets. “Me too.”

“Have you been able to contact your sisters at all?”

“I sent a letter a while ago.” Russia stares at his hands. “So I should be getting a response soon.”

“That’s nice…”

Russia looks up, and he’s smiling.

“I’m glad that despite everything, you three are able to maintain a…normal relationship.”

“Only because of what my country is doing to theirs.”

China frowns, looking pensive. “It’s still nice.”

_“I miss Kiku and Yong-Soo…”_

Russia’s touching his arm before he can stop himself. “One day the war will end, and you, Kiku, and Yong-Soo will be able to talk again.” _Shut up, Ivan._ “Your history is complicated, but from the stories you’ve told me, it seems like you three genuinely liked each other.” _Shut up. He doesn’t care what you think._ “So don’t worry. I’m sure someday you’ll all be able to have a normal relationship.”

China gets still and blinks, and then Russia isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating because suddenly his entire face flushes.

He drops his arm in shock. China ducks away. “You always do that.”

“D-Do what?”

“You…” China trails off, scrunching up his eyebrows.

The silence that follows feels like it lasts for an eternity, but eventually, China looks up.

Russia’s breath catches.

That causes something to shift in China’s demeanor, and suddenly he’s brushing his hand over Russia’s chest hair.

Russia trembles. Everything is overwhelming. China is somehow even closer now, and everything in his mind is screaming to tell him how beautiful he is, or touch him back, or _kiss—_

China abruptly freezes when he grazes his hand over Russia’s pec.

He then nearly tumbles backward. “I’m so sorry, Ivan.”

Russia has no idea what just happened. “Y-Yao.”

China is the most frazzled he’s ever seen. He’s backing towards the door. “I’m so sorry,” is what he keeps sputtering.

Russia stumbles after him. “Wa-Wait!”

China stops, his expression pained.

“It didn’t happen,” Russia gets out, absolutely terrified China won’t want anything to do with him again. “This didn’t happen.”

He blinks, cracking a wary smile. “Fine. If that’s how you want to go about this.”

They both stand there. China then rubs his face and sighs. When he drops his hands, he looks as collected as he usually is. “Good night, Ivan.”

“Good—Goodnight.”

“Don’t people kiss each other goodbye in your country?”

Russia feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

China smiles, turning towards the door. “It was a joke.”

* * *

 

“Letters.”

Russia blinks, completely sleep deprived and sporting a pounding headache. “What?”

“Letters,” his Nation Advisor angrily repeats, shoving them at him. “There are two. Have a blast.”

Russia truly hates this kid. “What if I want to respond?”

“Then come find me,” Gorelov mumbles, squirming.

America picks all moments to walk by, sees the letters; then has the audacity to stop. “Whoa, letters! That’s so cool; who from?”

Russia stares at him, Gorelov appears confused since he can only understand Russian, and America suddenly looks embarrassed.

“My sisters,” Russia responds in English. Gorelov gives him a pissed off look.

America glances back and forth between the two; then powerwalks away. “Super cool!” His voice echoes down the hall.

“What did you two say?” Gorelov sneers.

Russia pockets the letters. “He just wanted to know what these were.”

Gorelov opens his mouth to respond, but Russia walks back to his room and shuts the door before he can get anything out.

The bloody sheets are still balled up in the corner. The new ones are hanging off the bed. He really did try to sleep. He did somewhat at one point too, but then China was there, and China was grinding against his hips and kissing his chest, so Russia brought their lips together, and—

Since that dream, he’s been wide-awake.

He takes out the letters and gingerly unfolds them, deciding to open Belarus’s first. A picture falls out.

Russia rubs his temples. 

…

_12 чэрвень 1944 года_

_They told me you’re going to London tomorrow. Ew. Hopefully, this makes it to you._

_You haven’t been to Moscow in a while. We’re all still here. Of course, you know that. You sent that letter I just got._

_It seems like your battle campaigns haven’t been fun. It was fun when **I ** was a sniper. Too bad that only lasted for a hot second. I think Katya is happy no longer fighting. She says she’s useful as a cook. That makes me want to gag sometimes. _

_Speaking of which, I hope no one reads this. I don’t think they will. They don’t care about us. It’s almost as if we’re a waste of space; a decoration Stalin has no idea what to do with that periodically coughs up blood if something goes wrong._

_Especially since the other three got here. When it was just Katya and I for twenty years, they cared a bit, maybe. Not anymore._

_If they do read this, then I’ll probably be yelled at, and you won’t get this._

_In the timeline that you do, back to my favorite activity, complaining. You complained in yours, so my turn._

_I want Lithuania to shut the fuck up. He’ll drink two shots of vodka and then go on and on about Poland. “Where’s Poland?!” this. “Where’s Poland!!??” that. Katya keeps trying to be patient with him—say that Poland is probably Hitler’s butler boy. That always makes Lithuania angrier._

_I do have to wonder where Hitler’s Nations are, though. I remember that when there was a non-aggression pact between us, a Nazi delegation came over with Germany, but he’s all we ever saw. You would’ve thought that Hitler would have jumped at the opportunity to show off ~all his butlers and maids~_

_But he hasn’t. So now I get to listen to Lithuania complain and worry!!_

_Latvia cries a lot. He also gets angry when I say he looks like a child. I don’t care._

_Estonia is weird. He’s just weird. You know that. I still think he’s weird. He and Katya hang out a lot. It’s disgusting._

_I don’t know where I’m going with this letter. You didn’t particularly ask me any questions in yours, so I don’t have much to work with._

_Katya tells me I’m too shy and that I should try to speak to the others more. I don’t see a point in that. I also want you back here. Katya tells me I should stop being so obsessive. Sometimes I really hate Katya._

_I hope I’m not annoying you. (But you did send me that fucking letter!!) I know you get annoyed easily. I know the others still hate you. You did choke Lithuania that one time, scream at Latvia, and almost punch Estonia’s eye out. I still want you back. They did make a comment about Katya and I being submissive. Is that what started it?_

_I do know this, though. They’re happy it’s the USSR’s occupying them and not Nazi Germany. The lesser of the two evils right now, I guess, for them as Nations. We all try to pretend that we don’t wake up with blood staining our sheets with the cries of our citizens echoing in our heads._

_Too dark? Have fun in London. Won’t China be there?_

_I love you, Ivan. Write back._

_-Natalya_

…

He ignores the last comment and opens Ukraine’s letter.

…

_13 червня 1944 року_

_Natalya handed in her letter yesterday. The man who is our “Advisor” didn’t even inspect it. Natalya stalked him for a bit. He really didn’t check it over. He didn’t care. He didn’t think we’d be doing anything that’d constitute as a threat._

…

Russia pauses, his mouth suddenly dry. He wasn’t expecting this from Ukraine. Usually, she talks about something cheery.

…

_I think Stalin’s attitude towards us is changing. I don’t know if that’s because the British and Americans are invading France. I don’t know what those two countries would have told him. The fact that you’re gone coupled with him getting nastier to us seems like it’s for a reason, almost._

_Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe I’m listening too much to Lithuania’s conspiracy theories._

_But where **is** Poland? Where **is** France? Why have all the Nations acquired by the Nazis just vanished? In a way, we USSR Nations also aren’t publicly displayed, but everyone knows we exist! They know where we are!_

_I don’t want to make you think about this, or feel guilty for what your country has done, Ivan. You’re Ivan. And Russia is Russia. That’s what we’ve always told ourselves._

_But I’m starting to get afraid._

_I wish I had more to talk about, but this is all that’s been plaguing my mind for a while. I haven’t told Natalya about it. I haven’t really told anyone about it, but he’s getting nastier, Ivan._

_I think you were drunk, but I remember this conversation. You were talking about Yao. I know you hate it when Natalya and I bring him up after I teased you about him once, but I need to bring up what you said. You said that Yao told you about the 1936 Olympics that the USSR boycotted. You said Yao was drunk, and you were also drunk when telling this, but Yao said Hitler entered the room, and it was like you could hear a pin drop. Yao said that Prussia looked terrified._

_I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Prussia? Terrified? That obnoxious man of all people?_

_What did they find in France?_

_Sorry this was so bleak. Thank you for the letter from before, and write to me again if you can._

_-Katya_

* * *

 

1 июль 1940 года

_（1 July 1940）_

“They’ll be staying with you three.”

Russia’s face wrinkles in disgust.

His officials don’t seem to give a shit. Ever since the Great War and its disastrous outcome, no one has been giving a shit about Nations. God, it’s not like Stalin needs any more playthings either. He already has Russia’s sisters, who’ve been rotting in Moscow ever since the Soviets successfully ‘captured them’ in the Polish-Soviet War, and they’ve been doing absolutely nothing.

_Just leave the other three back in their own fucking countries. The puppet-governments there are already answering to Moscow, so it really shouldn’t matter if they’re here or not._

That’s how it was in the past when the Russian Empire would conquer other countries. They didn’t all have to— _pal around_!

Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia look miserable.

One of the officials who brought them here shifts uncomfortably. “Show them to their room. And a reminder, Russia, your audience is needed in an hour for a meeting.”

He doesn’t respond.

When they leave, Ukraine flashes a big smile while Belarus stays behind her and sneers.

“This place is rather big, so there are three spare bedrooms!” Ukraine gestures. “Let me show you around. It’s nice, don’t worry!”

She leaves, and the three follow silently while Belarus stays behind with Russia.

“I don’t want them here,” she mumbles.

He doesn’t either.

* * *

 

3 июль 1940 года

_（3 July 1940）_

The Soviets didn’t ‘capture’ Belarus or Ukraine. It was inevitable their countries would be split between the Soviets and the Polish, so they both willingly chose the Soviet side.

Their bodies were beat-up, and their people were dying, but at least the two came by choice. They wanted to be with him.

They actually like Ivan.

Unlike the other three, who, given the chance, Russia is pretty sure wouldn’t hesitate to strangle him.

He’s in a particularly foul mood after having sat in a meeting. Now that the French have surrendered and the British are the only ones holding the Nazis at bay, intelligence thinks Hitler’s getting ‘cocky.’

Hence, he might null his treaty with the USSR and send his troops out east.

Russia really doesn’t want to be involved in this mess. He already feels weak and hollowed out from all the other military _crap_ the USSR has been doing, the Winter War fresh enough that there are still wounds on his body. Engaging in military conflict with the Nazis is the last thing he wants to do.

He’s brooding alone in his room, holding an empty bottle of vodka that he downed. It’s not doing anything; his head is still clear.

After the third one, though, he starts to feel its effects.

But he’s still able to think. More alcohol should fix that. Yeah. He stands up. The world sways for a bit.

He doesn’t know when he ends up in the kitchen, but all of the others are there.

Ukraine blinks. “Ivan, I haven’t seen you all day.”

Russia stumbles over to the cabinets.

She snatches the bottle out of his hands before he can leave the room. “Stop. You don’t need to drink anymore. Natalya, get him some water.”

“You don’t have to submit to this bastard’s every need,” Lithuania sneers.

Ukraine forces Russia down in a chair as Belarus walks back over with a glass. “Don’t say that.”

Lithuania is shaking. “Even after he’s split apart your countries and taken away your identity, you’re both his _bitches_.”

Russia sees red.

He doesn’t know what happens next. Suddenly Lithuania is on the ground. Suddenly Lithuania is dead, and Estonia is knocked out cold, and Latvia is crying, so Russia starts screaming.

Belarus hits him with a chair.

* * *

 

“You’re not a monster, Ivan.”

He stares at his hands.

Ukraine finishes cleaning up the wound on the back of his head. “But now they’ll hate you even more. They already told me they were afraid of you. I tried explaining that they were just afraid of Russia and not Ivan, but…”

“It was Ivan who choked Lithuania to death,” Russia spits, his vision swimming.

“You let your emotions get the best of you. You are very emotional.” Ukraine sounds exhausted.

Russia can hear Belarus sniffle outside his room.

“Get some rest,” Ukraine murmurs. “I’ll bring up dinner when it’s done.”

Russia continues to avoid eye contact as Ukraine opens the door. She then pauses. “Don’t worry, Ivan.” She smiles. “Okay? We’re strong. You’re strong. We’ll get through this.”

They make eye contact.

“I love you.”

Ukraine shuts the door, and Russia can’t help but cry.

* * *

 

30 июня 1944 года

_（30 June 1944）_

China casually sits next to him like absolutely nothing happened last night.

Russia nearly chokes on the toast he was half-heartedly eating. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything.

England dully looks up from the book he’s reading. He and America are on the couch while Russia is at the table. “All there is is bread this morning. They’re running out of ingredients to make Chinese food.”

China doesn’t look at him. “Fine.”

It’s a rocky sort of silence that takes over. Maybe it’s because China’s eyes are bloodshot, or because Russia almost choked on his food, or because England was wasted at 3 in the afternoon yesterday, or because America hit a fucking hole in the tennis court. There’s a lot to consider.

Russia takes a deep breath and attempts to focus on anything but China.

Instead, he thinks about the stupid ‘information session’—whatever that means—he has to go to at 9:00, becomes distracted by England bouncing his leg, gets pissed off when he can feel the vibrations—

China leans into his personal space. “Do you know what this meeting is going to be about?”

Russia swallows. “No. Hopefully an update on the war, though.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice…”

* * *

 

 

England’s advisor comes into the room at 9:00 AM sharp, looking as though he wants to be anywhere but here.

Russia cranes his head when the door opens and sees their other Nation Advisors hovering in the hallway.

“I’ll keep this brief.”

They dully stare at him.

“There are substantial leads on where both of the Italian Nation Avatars are. British, American, and Canadian troops are working together to capture them.”

Russia blinks.

_They would be the first Axis Nations obtained, then._

_“_ Because of this new development, the Nations from the rest of the UK and a few from the Common Wealth will be arriving in a couple of days, so anticipate the new company.” The advisor turns around. “That’s all.”

_Fucking fantastic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about Eastern Europe, but I really tried. My Polish ancestors are yelling at me.
> 
> Extremely self-indulgent rochu scenes are fun. Ukraine and Belarus character explorations are also fun. also shit drawings on my tablet that's collecting dust


	8. 私を殺して

_1944_ _年_ _7_ _月_ _20_ _日_

“They think this will help cheer him up.”

Japan stares at her, wanting to scream.

Aida frowns. “I’m sorry. I need to properly dress you.”

“Does the Emperor really want to do this?” Japan asks, backing up. It’s been two months since he had to sit through one of these insufferable things. These ‘games’ with the Nations use to happen almost every other day, but with the progression of the war, they’ve since stopped. Japan was hoping they’d stopped for good.

Apparently not.

“His advisors are insisting, so he agreed.” Aida walks over to Japan’s closet. “Sit while I find you an appropriate outfit.”

“What’s there left to see?” His voice is cool, but it’s getting higher and higher. “Haven’t we already tested different poisons on them? Performed limb extractions? The Emperor has already seen everything.”

Aida faces him. “I told you, this is not his decision. Because he’s been more dejected than usual, his advisors think that if he watches the other Nations get mangled, then he’ll feel better.”

Japan wants to curl up into a ball. Instead, he sits down with a stony expression.

“I’m sorry you have to watch.” Aida’s voice is very quiet. “I have to as well. I have to dress them.”

“…”

“It will be over before you know it.”

Japan swallows bile.

He almost wishes these experiments were the same as the German ones he first witnessed. Cut and dry. Done for research reasons. And at first they were, but then, somewhere along the way, they became different. They became like a game—entertainment for members of the Japanese government.

So now the other Nations are dressed up in traditional Japanese clothing, have makeup thrown onto them, and then are paraded out in front of a bunch of officials. Afterward, someone will draw a slip of paper out of a glass jar to determine the victim. Japan has to watch everything. Japan is expected to _enjoy_ everything.

Aida removes his shirt. He sees her frown when brushing over the new wounds that have formed on his back.

It makes him really want to die.

“I have to go get the others ready,” Aida murmurs after it takes her what feels like years to dress him. “Wait here until I fetch you.”

Japan’s mouth tastes rotten. He doesn’t respond.

She leaves.

He wonders what they’re all currently doing. Usually, they’re in an underground cell located outside of Kyoto. But right now, they have to be at this palace, in their special rooms that are only used for this occasion. Do they resist Aida dressing them? Are they mean to her? Do they cry?

Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Hong Kong—they must all despise him.

Japan despises himself. He knows for a fact Korea hates him the most. What was the last real conversation they had? It couldn’t be that one back then, right?

Japan feels nauseous.

* * *

 

 _1894_ _年_ _7_ _月_ _13_ _日_  

The anxiety Japan feels is overwhelming. He attempts to mask it, suppress it, focus on what he needs to do instead.

 _“Play off the old convoluted tribute system,”_ his officials told him. _“Suck up to the Chinese Nation Avatar if you need to. He’ll report back to his government that the Japanese are willing to submit. News like that will excite them; after all, it has been 200 years._

_“That will help us catch them off guard with our next attack.”_

Japan takes a deep breath.

He’s in Korea at Gyeongbokgung Palace. The events leading up to this moment are a mess. The Joseon government, led by Empress Myeongseong, has increasingly become more corrupt and pro-Chinese ever since Korea opened itself up to the outside world, thanks to Japan. Korea is now advancing into the modern age _thanks to Japan._ But the Koreans can’t accept that, and they want to rid their peninsula of Japanese influence, so now China, despite the glorious mess it’s in, is again asserting its dominance over the area.

Actually, not all Koreans support Chinese influence, just those currently in charge. That’s why a short-lived rebellion happened. Under the guise of Tonghak philosophy, peasants banned together to expel foreign influence out of Korea.

Because China was sending part of its military at the Joseon government’s urgent request, Japan also felt it was in their best interest to send some soldiers. After all, Japanese residents were living on the peninsula. They opened up the region first. It was their right to levy control.

But then the Tonghak insurgents disbanded in early June. Just like that.

Chinese and Japanese troops have been stationed in Korea since, doing nothing.

 _“We haven’t lost our opportunity,”_ Japan’s officials said. _“We can still secure Japan’s position in Korea and rid it of China’s influence._

_“We just need to launch a surprise attack.”_

Asserting Japanese dominance means acquiring Korea as a colony. Control over it would help create a Japanese Empire, as well as stop the Russians from building their Trans-Siberian railway.

The stupid peninsula is a necessity to fight against the Western powers—economically and militarily. Strategic.

_“The Qing Dynasty is weak and broken, and Korea is a backward Hermit Nation that would have remained closed to the outside world if it weren’t for Japan’s help. It is Japan’s turn to assume the dominant role in Asia. We need to combat the Western Powers and lead everyone into a better future.”_

Talking about all this theoretically is one thing. Hearing his officials discuss his country with sparkles in their eyes, promising a bright future; how could Japan, how could Honda Kiku, not support what they’re saying?

But seeing Wang Yao and Im Yong-Soo is a completely different story.

He has the door open to the meeting room the other two are sitting in. Japan’s officials nod at him; then leave. He steps inside.

It’s been decades since the three of them were alone like this. The last time was at the start of the Meiji Restoration.

So this is jarring.

Korea still has a topknot and is dressed in traditional clothes. China is in a suit at least, but his hair is in a queue.

Japan, on the other hand, has his hair cropped short and is in a tight, British-style suit.

Korea and China were having a conversation before Japan entered. That has since stopped, and both of their faces are stony.

Japan takes a seat.

_“Distract them. Suck up to the Chinese Nation Avatar. Deceive them.”_

China looks at him, and after centuries of submitting, even with the 200 year Edo period in between, Japan suddenly feels very small.

“How are you doing, Kiku?”

Pleasantries? He can do pleasantries.

“Well. You?”

China averts eye contact. “I’m getting by.”

Korea fidgets. He can never sit still, has never sat still since they were children. It grates Japan. It also feels comforting because it’s something he’s known for so long, yet equally, hasn’t experienced in more than a lifetime.

He has a headache now.

“I’m _fantastic_!” Korea says loudly after a few moments. “Thanks for asking!”

He and Japan make eye contact.

“You know, I’d be even better if your two countries would just get the hell _out._ ”

They once had a conversation like this before, about 200 years ago when Japan tried to invade Korea and failed because it and Ming China fought back.

They went into isolation afterward.

Japan’s head is tight. “What, so then Russia can assume direct influence?” he says dryly. He can’t help it. Korea is weak, and the Western Nations are strong. If Japan or China leaves, one of them will come.

_It’s better this way._

Korea’s face turns red, but when China puts his hand on him, he deflates. “That’s part of why the two of us are here right now, Yong-Soo. An agreement is being drafted so the troops will leave.”

 _Japan won’t agree to this_ , Japan thinks. His stomach suddenly feels queasy when he sees how much more relaxed Korea looks. It shouldn’t affect him like this. Maybe it was those two centuries apart; it’s making him more sentimental.

A heavy silence falls.

Japan’s anxiety starts rearing its ugly head again. _Make pleasantries. Lie. Deceive. Help Japan get strong._

Korea stands up. “I don’t wanna stay in here. Let’s move.”

China blinks. “Alright, where to?”

“My bedroom?” Korea mumbles, biting his cheek and shyly glancing at him.

Japan looks away. Korea’s crush has always annoyed him. It’s existed for as long as he can remember, since they were both children, since Korea was in China more due to his country sending a greater number of tributes. It’s been a staple of his life.

Fuck, it’s all so normal, like nothing has changed, like Japan never went into isolation, like the West never invaded.

He wants to tear his hair out.

_“Deceive them.”_

When they start walking, China pats Japan’s head. “It’s still weird seeing it this short.”

That’s all it takes. That small action, and Japan is suddenly overcome with an overwhelming _longing_ for the carefree times of the Tang Dynasty.

He looks away, feeling like he’s little again. “I’m not entirely used to it either.”

China hums, dropping his hand as Korea glares at them.

Japan’s anxiety starts bubbling over.

The Qing and Joseon Dynasty. They’re faceless entities. Talk of exploiting them means nothing to Japan if it can secure power for his country.

But Yao and Yong-Soo are real, and Kiku still has a pathetic amount of attachment to them, especially after having not seen them in so long.

They enter Korea’s bedroom, and déjà vu smacks him in the face. It’s the same as it’s always been. The sentimentality he feels almost chokes him, but it’s quickly replaced by jealousy.

He watches Korea. Korea with his long hair. Korea with his Hanbok. Korea cheerfully showing China the birds he’s been painting. Japan then notices some Western philosophy novels in the corner, thrown to the ground, their pages sticking out every which direction.

_“I thought you Eastern Nations had more personality.”_

_Every time Prussia opened his mouth, it gave Japan whiplash. “Excuse me?”_

_“You’re just—you’re so chill with everything that’s happening. I don’t know; if I were you, I’d be upset.”_

_This was the third time Japan had ever seen Prussia. They were reading books on military tactics, so he had no idea where this conversation even came from._

_He studied the table. “Well, there isn’t a choice, is there?”_

_“Maybe not.”_

_They paused._

_“Kiku,” Prussia then said awkwardly. “If you ever want to talk, I can listen.”_

_“…”_

_“Even if you’re pissed at my country! Sometimes I’m pissed at my country too.”_

Japan never took his offer, but he wishes he did. He suddenly feels like he’s going to explode.

_“I didn’t mean to frighten you earlier,” China murmured._

_Japan didn’t want to be near him. “You introduced yourself; then said you’ve killed Nations. Go away.”_

_“I haven’t interacted with children in a long time…”_

_Japan didn’t care what excuse he had. “Go away—”_

_China pulled him into a hug._

_Japan bristled; then relaxed. His presence was strong and overwhelming, but at the same time, it was immensely comforting._

_“Yong-Soo tripped and fell into a pond,” China said into Japan’s hair. “He’s avoiding me.”_

_“So what; you came to me instead?”_

_He could feel China grin._

“Kiku, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he quickly responds, knowing he was losing control of his presence.

China frowns. “I’ve known you for more than a thousand years. I can tell you’re lying.”

“He’s been a mess ever since he’s westernized.” Korea glares, but it lacks a huge amount of bite.

It’s been 200 years. _It’s been 200 years_. Does Yong-Soo miss him? Does Kiku miss Yong-Soo? Korea should be angry at Japan. Japan is trying to colonize them.

Japan knows he’s supposed to go along with Yong-Soo and Yao and lie and act like everything is okay. How would he have responded in the past? Probably just barked back another petty comment. That’s what this is, a petty argument to fight over China’s attention. Korea knows that. Japan knows that.

What would he do now? The Modern Japan. The Westernized Japan.

He doesn’t know. That part of him is fake and calculated and fed with propaganda.

He’s supposed to deceive them, but he knows he can’t. To deceive them is to let himself enjoy a taste of the past. He can’t do that. He has to move forward. He can’t let himself look back.

He’ll break if he does.

Don’t his fucking officials understand that? Especially after his goddamn 200 year _isolation period?!_ Where his only contact with other Nations was Netherlands, and he barely showed up, and when he did, he didn’t give a fuck.

No. Japan is supposed to embrace this modernization, ignore the Edo period. Pretend his history with Korea and China, Yong-Soo and Yao, built up over a millennium and so vastly different from any Nation relationship in the West, doesn’t exist. Now he’s just another cog in the machine that needs to be converted so that Japan gains power. Honda Kiku doesn’t have any authority anymore. Fuck what he wants.

He’s a pawn piece, just like the other Western Nations. No longer a God. Just a simple, dredged up, pawn piece.

Japan feels like he’s going insane.

China says something. Korea says something.

Shouldn’t they hate him!? The last time they talked was when Japan wanted to invade Korea, just like today! They seemed to hate him 200 years ago! Fuck, Japan thrust a sword up to China’s neck and told him he was no longer his brother.

China steps forward.

Something inside Japan snaps. He backs up. grabs a vase from Korea’s bookshelf, and smashes it over China’s head.

Korea screams. China collapses. There’s a weird moment as blood gushes from his forehead, then stops.

It would have healed faster in the past. Japan notices. He knows the other two do as well.

China stands up calmly, like there aren’t shards of glass surrounding him and blood staining his clothing and skin. “Kiku, what the fuck?”

Japan takes another step back. He knows he has a crazed look in his eyes. He’ll have to work on suppressing that. “Don’t you remember what I did 200 years ago?”

“Your government put you up to it. But if you really don’t want to be considered my brother, then fine, Kiku, I know you’re not. I’m just happy to see you after so long, even if this situation is less than desirable. I hold no grudges.”

_whywhywhywhywhy—_

“There’s going to be a war, and Japan will win, and Korea will become our colony,” is what leaves Japan’s mouth.

China’s expression is blank. Korea looks baffled. “ _What_?”

_Hate me. Hate me._

“Japan will become the new dominant power. Japan will—”

“Kiku, I think you need to calm down.” Worried. China has the audacity to look worried.

_Hate me. Make this easier._

_I’m a pawn piece. I’m a rabid dog. I’m Japan. Honda Kiku is irrelevant._

Japan opens the door and pathetically flees.

* * *

 

 _1944_ _年_ _7_ _月_ _20_ _日_  

He retches.

He avoided China after the Sino-Japanese war and in any of the following meetings they both attended. He especially avoided him during the Berlin Olympics.

Korea, he dehumanized when the country became a Japanese colony. Japan didn’t see him at first, even after he was relocated to Kyoto to be ‘reeducated,’ but he thought his situation was fine. Neutral.

But then thirty years passed in the blink of an eye, and suddenly Korea’s situation that Japan was so easily able to _ignore_ was thrust in his face. “ _We can use Korea in experiments! This research can benefit the empire!”_

Japan can practically hear Italy barking out a laugh, saying something like, _“Look at you thinking about this! All you have to do is pretend! You’ve already been pretending since your first Sino-Japanese War!_

Pretend. Submit. Deceive. He’s tried so hard to move forward. He’s done everything, and this is somehow his reward?

America’s genuine smile when they met for the first time, China’s smile during the Berlin Olympics, even after Japan fucking smashed a vase over his head and stripped away part of his territory—both are suddenly all he can see

He knows they’re out there, both laughing at him, both on the right side of history.

* * *

 

He must have fallen asleep because he wakes up nearly drenched in sweat with Aida nudging him.

“It’s time,” she murmurs.

Japan can’t breathe. He opens his mouth; then closes it and stands.

The walk to the courtyard is a blur. His world feels like it’s spinning.

_Pretend. Move forward._

He catches a glimpse of all of them through the hedges, sitting on their mats. Mute. Frozen. Even Hong Kong.

He’s learned.

Japan’s vision swims.

* * *

 

 _1942_ _年_ _1_ _月_ _2_ _日_  

It’s freezing.

Japan tries to keep his face stony as he, Aida, and the boy walk down the hall, out to the courtyard where everyone is waiting. The boy is crying. It’s making Japan’s head spin.

Aida stops walking and shushes him. “Leon.” Her voice is quiet. “They probably won’t pick you, okay?”

Hong Kong nearly chokes on his own spit.

Japan looks away. Hong Kong’s physical age is so young that it makes him feel ill.

“Let me go,” Hong Kong wails in English, his British accent pronounced, his Western features apparent enough that it’s clear he doesn’t belong.

Japan wishes they could. Ever since he’s gotten here, he’s done nothing but cry and scream, and Japan would love nothing more than to dump his body in the ocean if that’d mean he’d be in peace.

Aida doesn’t know English. “You’re going to be fine. Come on, let’s start walking again.”

She has to practically drag him until he starts moving.

As they approach the courtyard, Japan can see the other Nations and his government officials through the hedges.

Aida opens the door.

It snowed yesterday, so a white dust is coating everything. Government officials are on a platform, dressed in warm clothes, sitting comfortably in chairs. The other Nations are on the ground, kneeling on mats, dressed in thin, traditional Japanese-style clothing; their faces caked with makeup.

Japan is wearing his military uniform. He can see the others shivering, and fights the urge to reach out and hand his coat to one of them.

The others tense when they see Hong Kong. He’s now hysterical, screaming for ‘Arthur,’ as Aida drags him to his mat.

“Let’s begin,” a Japanese official announces once he’s situated.

Hong Kong shrieks. Japan notices Korea sneer at him, and suddenly the situation feels so surreal that he almost breaks into hysterics himself.

A Japanese official reaches into a jar and pulls out a piece of paper.

“Hong Kong!”

“NO!” he shrieks in English. “No, no, no, no—”

* * *

 

 _1944_ _年_ _7_ _月_ _20_ _日_

A bead of sweat rolls down Japan’s back.

It isn’t freezing today; rather, it’s sweltering. There’s no screaming either; it’s dead silent.

Aida and Japan shuffle through the door to the courtyard; then sit down. It’s only them and the other Nations.

Minutes pass.

After a while, Japan can’t help but impatiently check the clock hanging over their head. The Nations in front of them are growing restless.

More minutes.

Korea starts doing his thing where he shifts back and forth when he’s bored. It starting to grate on Japan’s nerves, and the fact that it does almost causes something inside of him to snap.

_Get a grip._

Japan studies Korea. Even with the makeup, he can see how gaunt his skin is and that he’s lost a dramatic amount of weight.

_Get a grip._

Suddenly, he can feel Vietnam staring at him. They make eye contact. She sends him a look of pity.

Japan is taken aback, infuriated, confused—

Korea shifts so much that a piece of fabric fastened to his elaborate kimono comes loose.

Aida silently stands up. As she walks over to fix it, though, voices start coming through the hedges. Korea begins to look panicked, and Japan stands up. He can feel everyone’s presences expanding—

The door opens.

Korea freaks out and slams Aida to the ground just as she reaches out to touch him.

Japan doesn’t know when he moves, but suddenly, he’s cradling Aida. Nothing seems broken, but she’s completely dazed, and Korea is frozen, and fuck, Japan is right next to him.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?!”

Japan’s head snaps towards whoever said that. It’s a bunch of soldiers, the Emperor’s security guards, all armed.

No one else is here yet but them.

The emotionless mask Korea has been perfecting over the past decades has cracked. He looks terrified. Everyone else is slipping too, and Japan makes eye contact with Hong Kong—

_“Ki-Kiku!?”_

_Japan was frozen, his heart pounding against his ribcage._

_Hong Kong was going crazy in his cell. “I saw—I saw you! You have access to the keys, right? Right!?_ Please _.”_

_He did have access. This would be his only chance too since he was just there to see Hong Kong’s relocation._

_Hong Kong started sobbing._

_But he couldn’t bring himself to move._

He couldn’t bring himself to move; yet, for whatever reason Hong Kong is looking to him for comfort, for safety, as these Japanese soldiers shriek at them.

“It’s fine,” Aida says weakly, which only confirms how the situation is far from that.

Guns are pointed at all of them.

“WHO DID THIS?”

Korea is as white as a sheet, and that’s not from the makeup.

“THE JAPANESE NATION AVATAR, WHO DID THIS?”

Japan’s vision tunnels.

Before he can respond, the soldiers storm over.

Korea panics. He’s never operated well under panic. He runs. He’s shot in the back of the legs. Japan urgently drags Aida to the side. Hong Kong starts hyperventilating. Vietnam’s face is slammed to the ground. Cambodia and Laos are knocked to their stomachs. Thailand is kicked in the gut.

_Do something._

Korea is shot again. He screams.

 _Do something_.

The butt of one of the soldiers’ guns is slammed into Hong Kong’s head.

_Prussia was restrained to a medical bed. A gagged was stuffed into his mouth, and his shirt was ripped off, and something was injected into his arm. Japan’s vision blurred. The smell of the room felt suffocating._

But he stood there.

He’s always stood there.

That’s why he doesn’t know what possesses him. He stands up and moves away from Aida, approaching one of the soldiers, the one who is now leering at Vietnam.

He’s shot in the back just as Hirohito screams for everyone to stop.

His body slams to the ground, and an immense amount of pain washes over him. It’s quickly masked by shock.

He’s never been mistreated by his own government before.

“What the hell is going on?” Hirohito demands.

“Your Majesty, the Korean Nation Avatar tried to attack us!”

Japan can’t see anyone’s face. He can feel the wound on his back trying to heal, but the bullet is lodged there, making it impossible.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Aida grip a plant to steady herself as she stands up. Her knuckles are white. “Your Majesty, he did not attack anyone. He got frightened when I went to fix his clothing. There is no harm done.”

“Your Majesty, Aida Makiko was shoved to the ground,” a soldier says, his voice extremely tense. Afraid.

Japan’s head is spinning.

They’ve never been this afraid before. It’s not like the others haven’t tried to run away in the past. When Hong Kong did, they just laughed and quickly restrained—

The back of Japan’s neck is grabbed. He’s forced to his feet; then let go. He collapses.

The soldier holds him up again. Japan’s eyes start to water.

“Why did you shoot him?” Hirohito asks. His face is blank. There are other government members behind him, all looking tense and unsettled.

“He started approaching one of the other soldiers.”

Hong Kong is still sobbing.

Hirohito and Japan make eye contact, and Japan almost wants to cry out to him. His heart rate is increasing with every second.

_They’ve never hurt me before._

Prussia spoke out against Hungary being experimented on, and then he was tortured.

Japan is getting terrified. He knows his presence is expanding.

Hirohito looks away dismissively. “Drop him.”

Japan’s face slams into the concrete.

“Why isn’t he healing? Where did you shoot him?”

“In the back, Your Majesty.”

“Remove the bullet.”

Japan’s clothes are torn open. A doctor, one of the people who usually performs the experiments, then walks over and painfully digs it out of his wound.

Everything heals once the foreign object is removed.

“His back is covered in cuts and bruises.”

Hirohito sounds bored. “Let me see.”

Japan is forced to his feet again. He can see Aida look horrified. “I’ve been dressing the wounds,” she gets out, stumbling over. “It’s probably best to leave—”

“You haven’t reported to me that he has been this injured,” Hirohito interrupts.

Everything seems to break.

Japan is unable to fathom why she would keep that a secret. The soldiers aim their guns at her as the rest of the Nations presences expand. It’s causing Japan to feel suffocated.

“It didn’t seem important,” Aida gets out. “He’s already been depressed, so I didn’t want to add to his misery, Your Majesty.”

“You’re sympathetic to him. You’re sympathetic to all of them.”

Aida swallows.

Hirohito looks deranged for a split second. That quickly fades. Other government officials look equally as disgusted, and they all start talking at the same time.

“I told you the Japanese Nation Avatar wasn’t to be trusted! Anyone associating with him is scum too!”

“The Prussian Nation Avatar corrupted him.”

“He and the one Italian Nation Avatar sent each other  _letters_  in the past.”

“Silence,” Hirohito orders calmly.

Hong Kong is still sobbing.

“Shoot him.”

He shrieks; then abruptly cuts off after being shot in the head.

Japan’s ears are ringing.

“Lower your guns away from Ms. Aida. While I am relieving her of her duty, I don’t think she needs to be killed.”

“Your Majesty,” Aida chokes out. “I’ve already told you that the Japanese Nation Avatar has been obedient and would not do anything like—like what we’ve learned the Prussian one has.”

Hirohito blinks. “That’s precisely why I’m relieving you. Your naivety could cost us. You’ve already trusted the Korean Nation Avatar too much, and that could have killed you.”

_What did Prussia do? What are they talking about? What did I do? I stood up. I shouldn’t have stood up. I—_

Hirohito’s head lolls to the side. “Nations represent the old order. They’re completely useless now. And because of that, boredom sets in. Boredom is dangerous. Boredom causes them to act out. That’s why the Prussian Nation Avatar did. The Nazi government is defective and deficient, and they don’t know how to control their Nations. Japan is not like them. Japan will surpass them. And what has Japan done to surpass everyone despite all odds? Modernize.”

He looks at Japan like he’s a piece of feces. “So we will modernize now. Nations are a relic of the past. I’m sick of these experiments on them. They’ve proved useless. We have other humans at our disposal if we require any sort of tests to be carried out. All of them here, throw them in their cells and let them waste away until they die. I don’t want to deal with this anymore.”

Laos makes a whimpering noise. A few of Hirohito’s aides try to say something. He ignores them, instead, making eye contact with Japan.

“You’re the very embodiment of kowtowing to China. Sent there in the past as Tribute. Worshipped, then locked away with the Shogun to do nothing for two centuries.”

Japan’s vision blurs.

“Do you know what the Prussian Nation Avatar did?”

“No, Your Majesty,” he chokes out.

“He’s still useful,” Aida says quickly. “I can still be useful, Your Majesty.”

Guards bristle. “Don’t speak to him unless he—”

Hirohito holds up his hand. “Oh? How so?”

“Keep him locked in his room if you want to, but at least if you let me keep taking care of him, I can tell you when there are attacks on Japan and where those attacks are.”

“A radar? How fitting,” one of the government members sneers.

Hirohito turns. “Fine. I’m leaving. Whoever’s idea this was needs to meet with me.”

Some members of the government pale as all of the other Nations are shot in the head.

Aida blindly guides Japan away.

* * *

 

 _1944_ _年_ _7_ _月_ _20_ _日_  

It’s one in the morning, and he’s staring at his ceiling.

He’s still terrified.

Terrified at the casual way they treated him, terrified that they were close to torturing him.

He wants to die. God, he does.

But just those few seconds where Vietnam sent him that look, and Korea fidgeted like his annoying self, and Hong Kong looked to him for comfort—

He also so desperately wants things to be normal that the sheer hope of any end to this hell is keeping him alive

He pathetically squeezes his eyes shut, wondering what Prussia did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unbelievable amount of research went into parts of this and im still probably not 100% accurate 
> 
> If anyone speaks Japanese here…I’m Pretty™ sure the title says ‘kill me.’ I fucking. Used baidu translate and compared English to Japanese and then Chinese to Japanese so that seems…like the correct phrase. Idk. 
> 
>  
> 
> [If ya want to listen to some music and get vibes for the chapter, check out this ost of the movie that helped me realize i really love girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bafQOb3MGhs)


	9. verpiss dich, ich bin meine eigene Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We are each born and kept alive for our country's sake. We are instinctually aware of this, and yet sometimes we embrace thoughts counter to our reason. Why is it, God, that you gave feelings to beings such as ourselves?” [(x)](https://myreadingmanga.info/osova-sol-y-sombra-hetalia-dj-eng/)

_9\. März 1944_  

He’s pacing.

Of course, working up the resolve to actually do something about France’s situation is completely different from executing a plan.

Prussia wants to hurl something at the wall, but all of his furniture is bolted to the ground, unfortunately.

This tiny, boxed-in room is what he’s known ever since coming to Paris. There’s a bed, a nightstand, and a closet. No windows. One light bulb. The door is locked every night, and it’s only opened when it’s his scheduled bathroom breaks, meal times, or when he’s about to be dragged away to watch them torture France.

He chews at his fingernails. He needs to get a letter to Spain. He has the address of the place that will forward it to him memorized, but…

Prussia stops pacing.

He also needs to smuggle a pen and paper into here, somehow. He then needs to take that letter and shove it in a mailbox. He has no idea where a fucking mailbox is. He never leaves the building since France is in the basement of it.

And what is he going to tell Spain? _‘Hey, Buddy? How’ve you been? Me? I’ve been awful, watching Francis get dissected every other day. Sometimes they test poisons on him for the Final Solution’s research purposes! Other times they try cosmetic surgery to see what works and what doesn’t so that our friends back in Berlin know what to do on Roderich!! Haha, man, I’m kind of sick of this. Want to help me break Francis out?’_

And then what? Prussia doesn’t know what comes after that. Do the three of them run away? Where would they even go, Switzerland?

Prussia miserably sits down on his bed. There’s no clock in the room, but he knows he has a long night ahead of him. 

* * *

 

 _11. März 1944_  

Now that Prussia is paying attention, he can see that the people here have a schedule.

He usually wakes up at the same time every day because of a few soldiers listening to a radio. It used to annoy him, but after paying attention to the broadcast today, he’s grateful.

7 AM is when his day generally starts.

He counted. Counting is fun. Breakfast is twenty-eight minutes after that. At least, today it was. Yesterday, it was thirty-one.

Time is harder to gauge in the afternoon, especially since he doesn’t get lunch. It’s in the middle of the day that he’s usually dragged to watch France too, and that’s when his brain shuts down. But today, he paid attention. He passed two windows on the way to the basement. By whatever sheer luck, they’re on a street corner.

He couldn’t see anything past that.

Street corners usually have mailboxes, though.

* * *

 

_12. März 1944_

There’s a mailbox. 

* * *

 

 _13. März 1944_  

He feels like there should be guards outside his room at night, but there aren’t. Instead, it’s always eerily quiet.

He also heard the soldiers talking today as he calmly walked to where France was about to have his face cut open. They were acting as if he were deaf.

_“He’s been submissive ever since the 9 th.”_

_“Maybe this re-education is finally getting into his thick skull.”_

Besides for the scientists operating on France, none of the guards seem to really be into this job. They like beating the shit out of Prussia and get a kick out of him keeling over in pain. They especially love watching France, like he’s nothing more than a slug that’s had salt dumped on it.

But they’re bored. Prussia hears them complain about that outside of his door in the morning.

He doesn’t know the layout of the entire building. He thinks he’s on the third floor, though. There are other rooms too, but he’s not sure if they’re bedrooms or not.

Maybe it’s just his floor that’s empty. He should try pressing his ear to the ground.

* * *

 

_14. März 1944_

They’re digging a scalpel into France’s eye socket.

Prussia nearly throws up. The sounds France is making coupled with his presence is overwhelming.

“I’m trying to see if I can insert a platelet to reposition his nose. It needs to be in a spot where his body can’t reject it,” the one scientist explains to the others as if they’re dissecting a frog.

France shrieks.

Prussia didn’t sleep last night. He was too busy straining to hear any movement, and the exhaustion is making him delusional.

“Hand me that—”

He vomits.

The guards laugh. The head scientist is furious. “I can’t have any contaminants in here after we finally might have a breakthrough. Get rid of him.”

Prussia hears someone else yell at ‘Bauer’ to mop up the vomit as he’s unchained and hauled away.

They drag him up the stairs. They pass the two windows. On the third floor, Prussia can see a door open. It’s an office.

He’s chucked into his room.

The door slams shut, and the laughs of the two Nazis slowly fade away.

Prussia lies on the ground for a while, soaking in how cool it is, then realizes something and sits up with a jolt.

They didn’t lock the door.

He stands, shaking, then edges forward and ever so slightly turns the handle, feeling dazed when the door actually opens.

He then panics and shuts it.

There’s no noise coming from outside, though. Nothing.

He opens it again, his heart pounding rapidly. The door to that office is still open.

As quietly as he can, he walks to it. It’s tiny. There’s a desk pushed up against a window and shelves overflowing with folders. The window is cracked open. The sunlight that shines on him feels warm…

Voices from inside the house quickly remind him where he is.

Panicking, he grabs some loose-leaf paper. A pen. He frantically opens a desk drawer and stuffs a letter-opening knife into his ratty pant pockets. Envelopes. Stamps.

He sprints out of the room. He expects something bad to happen. He expects to be caught.

He makes it back in one piece.

* * *

 

_15. März 1944_

... 

_15.3.1944_

_You said I could contact you. You told me to send a letter to this address. I memorized it._

_You know who I am. I’m desperate. Please meet me in Paris, at a crowded location. We should blend in. You know that really fancy restaurant the three of us went to once after the League of Nations meeting? Meet me there, 30. April, five pm._

_He’s with me, here. I want to help him._

_Don’t respond to this._

_123_

... 

Prussia is terrified the letter will be intercepted.

The restaurant is Café de la Paix. He has no idea if Spain remembers it, but he can’t mention it by name.

He chews his lip.

Spain told him to write ‘123’ at the end of the letter so that it will be forwarded to him, but fuck, the whole process seems dodgy. Not to mention he’s just asking Spain to find a way and _leave_ his country.

He stops chewing his lip and buries his face into his hands. He doesn’t know how they’re going to rescue France. Shit, he doesn’t even know how he’s going to get outside to mail this letter. And then there’s the waiting period. He figured a month and a half was a fair amount of time to give Spain, but it seems like a lifetime away.

The door is locked tonight, Prussia checked. But he realized something when wiggling the handle.

It’s very weak.

All of the shit he stole is hiding under his mattress. He was fearful someone would check, but when the people went to fetch him today for his bathroom break, it was as if nothing changed.

He lies down and tries to sleep.

* * *

 

_“They aged rapidly and turned to dust,” Bavaria says simply, like they’re discussing the weather. “They let go.”_

_Prussia can’t deal with this again. He sprints. He’s quickly cornered. Bavaria is repeating himself in the background. Rather than turn to dust, his skin is melting. Blood is filling the room. Prussia runs again. Darkness closes around him. Suddenly, he’s alone with just Hungary on a medical bed. She’s naked and makes a hideous noise. Prussia feels choked. He tries to reach out to her, only to have his hand hit Austria instead. His face is missing. Blood is pouring out of the hole where it should be. Prussia screams. He’s restrained from behind. It’s Germany. His expression is evil. He’s gripping Prussia so hard it hurts. It’s now Hitler who’s grabbing him. France is presented in front of them. He shrieks. Prussia desperately reaches out his hand, only to see it dissolve. He can’t stop it this time. Fear overcomes him._

_“Just let go. It’s easy,” Bavaria whispers into his ear._

…

 _16\. März 1944_  

Prussia wakes up in a cold sweat.

He frantically checks his hand, only to see that it’s still there.

Normal like usual.

Fear is clogging his senses. The letter under his mattress seems to be burning a hole through it.

He stands up and paces, trying to distract himself, but his mind keeps coming back to Hungary. She’s probably being tortured just as much as France, and Prussia can’t do _anything_. Christ, Austria is having daily surgeries performed on him back in Berlin; Germany is being forced to serve as Hitler’s lackey.

Prussia can’t be passive anymore; he needs to help one of them. He needs to help at least _one of them_.

He feels cagey. He stands up. The outside hallway is silent as he changes out of his pajamas and into his only pair of normal clothes. He then lifts up his mattress and grabs the letter, stuffing it down his pants pocket, as well as the pocketknife, which he clenches in his right hand as he tries the door handle with his left.

This isn’t rational; he knows that. He has no plan.

Fear is driving him.

The door is locked. Prussia starts rapidly jiggling the handle, but it doesn’t move. He exerts his strength. It finally budges. He knows he’s making a lot of noise, but there are no voices so far. Another huge shove. The door makes an awful creaking sound, and it’s the catalyst he needs. He uses all of his strength and kicks the lock, having his eyes turn red in the process.

The door breaks down.

Now that his eyes are red, everyone’s presences become overwhelming. His body tells him he should submit to these people, but he begs it to rationalize that he’s Prussia, that Nazi Germany isn’t his country.

There’s no one on the third floor. Prussia moves down the stairs, passing by the two windows. It’s pitch black outside.

He’s on the second floor. A guard blinks in confusion. He has no time to react before Prussia charges forward, pocketknife brandished. He slits the man’s throat and yanks away his pistol. A door opens. Prussia bolts. He’s on the first floor. A guard shoots him in the shoulder, and pain washes over him, only being dulled as he gives into his Nationhood, his duel state, his killing state.

He bares his teeth and charges forward. There are multiple guards, but it’s the middle of the night, and they’re unprepared, caught off guard, and exhausted. Prussia slits one’s throat. His hands fly to his neck, knocking his glasses into Prussia’s face. He grabs them. Another Nazi shoots at him, but Prussia dodges. The bullet ricochets and hits a third guard on the side. Another bullet grazes past Prussia’s cheek. That one burns.

He feels frantic. He knows what type of bullet that is and dives out the window, blocking his face with his arms. Glass gets embedded into them. His shoulder is still bleeding, but he sprints. He thinks he’s dropped the pocketknife. He still has the pistol, but it’s not ready to fire.

Abruptly, people start shouting at him since he’s outside during curfew. He keeps running. The sun isn’t up, and the streets are pitch black. They try to pursue him, but he turns down some back alleyways and keeps sprinting.

It’s only when he feels as though his lungs are going to burst and his legs are about to give out that he crams his body behind a dumpster.

His heart is pounding. Staying still makes the pain he was suppressing radiate throughout his body. Shaking, he dislocates his arm so he can remove one of the glass shards from it.

He then jams it into his throat. 

* * *

 

He’s still squeezed behind the dumpster when his body comes back to life, and relief washes over him like a drug.

It’s daytime now. He can hear nearby activity.

There are still glass shards in his arm. Cautiously, he wriggles into open space to inspect them.

His shirtsleeves are mangled and covered in blood. He winces and removes the shards, biting down on a stray piece of cloth to prevent himself from screaming. Once the glass is removed, he can see the wound beginning to heal, but the pace is so slow it’s laughable.

He scoots so that his back is pressed against the wall. He’s in some back alleyway, and there are clothing lines strung above him, so it must be a residential area. It looks far from ritzy. There’s a layer of grime covering everything.

Prussia inspects what he has. The letter is still in his pocket. The pistol is on his thigh. There’s also that crushed pair of glasses he took from the one guard. The lenses are cracked, but he puts them on, hoping it’ll help alter his appearance.

There aren’t too many albino people, though. He stands out. He’ll be found if he’s not careful.

He realizes he’s shaking.

He has absolutely no plan. He needs to mail the letter, and then what? Wander the streets for a month and a half!?

He grips both sides of his head, bringing his knees to his chest.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Nobody comes down the alley. He almost wishes someone would—have the Nazis find him. Capture him. Restore the bit of normalcy he’s been holding onto.

It’s when he hears the 2 PM church bells that he decides he needs to do something. Go somewhere. At least find a post box.

Prussia’s clothes are covered in dried blood. He’s wearing cracked glasses. He knows he looks like a lunatic.

He shoves the pistol into his pocket.

Trying to stay far away from any main street, he starts wandering the back alleyways. He’s somehow ended up in a minority district, and everyone he passes regards him with fear and confusion.

Eventually, exhaustion overcomes him, and he ends up crouching next to some leather repair shop that looks like it’s seen better days. One of the windows is boarded up.

He must doze off because when he wakes, someone is nudging him.

Prussia’s eyes fling open. In a panic, he pushes the person away, only to see that it looks like a sixteen-year-old kid.

Prussia blinks. “I’m so sorry,” he chokes out in French.

The kid looks equally as dazed. “Are you…okay?” Her deep brown eyes are wide.

Prussia can’t help but laugh. “No.”

The kid stares at him. Prussia expects her to leave, or at least have one of her parents emerge and tell her to get away from the weird man.

Instead, she leans closer. “Did the Nazis do this to you?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie.

“…”

“Listen, you should probably—”

“Are you on the run from them?”

“What?”

“The Nazis. Are you on the run from them?”

Prussia’s head is spinning. “It’s dangerous to be around me. You should—”

“So you are. Around here—” The kid pauses. “Obviously you’re not Berber like most of us. The Nazis don’t come here during the day. They’re only really strict during curfew.”

“Tedus, who are you talking to?” someone suddenly asks her in Kabyle.

Tedus whips her head around. An older man is standing behind them, regarding Prussia with extreme caution.

Prussia swallows. Tedus looks distressed. “Mr. Abdenour, he’s hurt,” she responds in the same language.

“So I see. You also have no idea who this man is.”

Prussia is desperate and frightened. He starts speaking in Kabyle before either of them can say anything else. “I’m sorry. I’m not a Nazi, but I am being hunted down by them, so I should—”

“Are you a Berber?” Mr. Abdenour asks, now seeming completely confused. Tedus appears enthralled.

Prussia swallows. “No, just a language professor. Or I—I used to be one.”

Mr. Abdenour is dismissive. “Ah.” He grabs Tedus by the arm. “Come, child. Let’s go.”

“Wait—”

Prussia stands up and hobbles away, his legs almost giving out. His stomach is growling, and he feels weak and dehydrated, but he still needs to find a post box.

He limps for a block; then collapses and drifts to sleep again.

* * *

 

Something is poking him.

Prussia opens his eyes in a panic. It’s the girl again.

Tedus frowns. “If you’re running away from the Nazis, you aren’t doing a good job of it,” she says in French.

Prussia feels humiliated. He opens his mouth to respond, but Tedus cuts him off when she grabs his arm. “I have a house that I live alone in. Come on.”

Prussia’s head is spinning. “Wait.”

“Mr. Abdenour or any other of the adults might see you if you don’t hurry up.”

Prussia allows her to drag him to his feet, then promptly lead him down a cobblestone road. He almost trips a few times. After a while, they end up on a small alleyway sandwiched in between buildings. Tedus fumbles to unlock a beat-up looking door.

“You’re way too trusting of me,” Prussia chokes out as she leads him inside and turns on a light.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Prussia instantly sees the men whose throats he slit. “No.”

Tedus gestures him into a kitchen. It’s cramped but barren, with nothing but a small wooden table.

“No one lives here but me,” Tedus mumbles.

“What about your parents?” Prussia asks, feeling a headache form. His German accent almost slips for a second.

“My mom is back in Casbah with my brother. My dad is dead.”

“Oh.”

“He died four years ago by some Nazis after he enlisted. I hate Nazis.” She spits out that word.

Prussia studies the table.

Tedus’s head then snaps up. “Are you Jewish?”

He wants to cry. “No.”

“Then why are the Nazis hunting you?”

“My research went against their ideals.”

“Right. You’re a language professor.”

Something drives by outside.

Tedus sighs, leaning her head back, and Prussia takes the moment to examine her. Her skin is tan, and her hair is a wiry dark brown, haphazardly thrown into a ponytail. There’s a cross around her neck. Mr. Abdenour, in contrast, was wearing a turban.

“How are you surviving by yourself?” Prussia finds himself asking, feeling like this is all just a dream.

Tedus picks at her cuticles. “By doing odd jobs and stuff. My dad was an engineer, so I want to be an electrician. And I have… my dad left me textbooks, so I’ve been studying from them, but I stopped going to school when the war hit.” She squirms. “Since he’s died, the neighbors have been helping me while I do my shitty odd jobs, all of us waiting for the day when I can be an electrician. I also hoard ration cards. I guess someone as high and mighty as a professor has plenty of ration cards.”

She’s bitter. Prussia can’t help but feel bitter as well. “Do I look like I’ve been well fed?”

Guilt flashes across her face. “Sorry. No, I—you’re filthy. I can draw a bath. I have some of my dad’s old clothes you can wear.”

“Tedus, you don’t have to do this.”

She frowns. “Last month I saw Nazis bust down someone’s door and lug their screaming family away, all just because they were Jewish. I’m sick of letting people be taken away. If you don’t want my help; then fine, but I refuse to sit around.”

* * *

 

Prussia’s clothes are bunched-up on the floor, the pistol carefully hid underneath. The letter is still in his pocket.

The bathwater is kind of gross now and lukewarm at best, but Prussia doesn’t want to move. His wounds are really taking their sweet time at healing, and his entire body aches. He doesn’t want to dwell on that.

Maybe an hour passes. He gets out of the bath when the water’s cold. The clean clothes Tedus gave him are off to the side, and he puts them on. They’re too tight in some areas and too loose in others, but he can’t complain.

“Do you need glasses?” Tedus asks when he walks into the kitchen. She’s reading something but looks up after he enters.

“I,” Prussia swallows. “I stole them, so no.”

“A disguise.”

“Kind of.”

“If you want a disguise, you’ll…need to dye your hair or something as a start.”

Prussia feels a sour taste in his mouth. “Know where I can get hair dye, then?”

“Nope.”

Prussia sits at the kitchen table. The pistol is stuffed into his pocket again, along with the letter, and both feel heavy.

Tedus fidgets, pushing her book aside. “I would feed you, but I really…don’t have food at the moment.”

Hunger pains are eating away at Prussia’s stomach. “It’s fine.”

“But I can pick up some milk and bread, though the line is usually long at this time.” Now she’s talking to herself. “I do have some extra cash, but going to the ‘black market’ for food is always a gamble.”

“Tedus, you don’t have to do this.”

Anger flashes across her face. “I already told you I want to. Here.” She stands up. “I’m going to get food. Stay here and don’t open the door for anyone.”

Prussia’s mind is reeling. “Wait.” He reaches into his pocket, fumbles past the gun, knows Tedus sees it, and grabs the letter. It’s crumpled up. “Can you mail this?” he asks desperately.

She takes it and furrows her brow. “To Spain?”

Prussia swallows. “Yeah.”

“There’s no return address.”

“I’m not expecting a reply.”

She pockets the letter and turns towards the door. “I would be freaked out that you have a gun, but maybe you can use it to defend yourself if something happens.”

She leaves, and all Prussia can think is that she’s definitely too trusting.

* * *

 

The bread is stale. The milk makes Prussia’s stomach churn.

It’s the best meal he’s had in years.

“I made sure I put the letter in a more centrally located post box,” Tedus says as Prussia picks at the bread. “I hope it gets to Spain.”

Prussia doesn’t know how to respond. He desperately hopes so too.

It’s only 7 PM. Curfew is in two hours, and Prussia is feeling jittery.

Tedus leans her head on her hand, her eyes getting glazed over. “You know, I still don’t know your name.”

“Gilbert,” Prussia answers. He almost says his last name, then thinks better of it when he realizes how stereotypically German it is.

“Gilbert…How old are you?”

Prussia’s mind blanks. “Twenty-five?” he eventually says, hoping that he looks like a twenty-five-year-old. He swallows. “You?”

“Sixteen.”

“When did you immigrate here?”

“When I was eleven.” Tedus sighs. “Sometimes I really miss Casbah, but it all seems like a dream at this point.”

“Do you…keep in touch with your mother at all?”

Tedus snorts. “Since the war? No.” She chews her lip. “I’m…thankful for everyone here, though. Especially Mr. Abdenour; he’s been like a father figure to me.”

Prussia frowns as Tedus rapidly blinks. “Fuck, I—” She says that in Kabyle. “I really miss my dad.”

He reaches out and touches her hand.

“And I don’t know; I saw you all battered and broken, and I wondered if that’s what my dad looked like before he was killed. I wasn’t able to protect him. I wasn’t able to stop that Jewish family from being dragged away. So right now I just want to help at least one person, you know? I know you could be a German spy, but.”

“I,” he doesn’t know what to say. “I’m not a German spy.”

“You have a Nazi pistol. They carry it on their belts.” Tedus’s voice is choked up.

Prussia pales. “I stole it. I slit a man’s throat and stole it.”

Tedus tenses up. Prussia removes his hand from her and places the gun on the table.

“They want to kill me.” Prussia knows his voice sounds slightly deranged. “I…” He struggles to explain. “That letter was to my friend in Spain. I told them to meet me here on April 30th. Once they come, we’ll leave together.” 

A heavy silence falls.

“I can keep you hidden until April 30th,” Tedus says after a few moments. “I can do that.” She seems to be gaining confidence. “I can help you.”

Prussia blinks. “If we can find a way to disguise my appearance better, I can try and help you get money and food.” His voice is breathy. He’s unable to believe that he now has at least a basic plan for the future.

Tedus nods, then pauses. “We’ve been speaking Kabyle this entire time. Your Kabyle really is good.”

Prussia forces out a grin. “I’ve been told I have a knack for mastering languages.” 

* * *

 

It’s a one-bedroom house, so Tedus sets down a bedspread. “I used to sleep in here with my dad.” She suddenly looks shy. “I hope this is okay.”

Anything is okay. This girl is like a saint to him. “It’s fine.”

There’s an awkward pause. “I’ve never slept in the same room as another man before,” Tedus mumbles shyly.

“I’m engaged,” is what Prussia blurts out without thinking. He backtracks. “And I’m eleven years older than you. I have no—This won’t be weird, I promise.”

Her face is flushed. “Okay.” She throws some pillows onto the ground. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Prussia’s mind blanks. “She’s in Spain.”

“The friend who’s going to smuggle you away?”

“Yeah.” Prussia’s mouth feels dry. “I hope.”

Tedus lays down a blanket and smiles. “Well, you have a month and a half to figure everything out.”

* * *

 

 _19. März 1944_  

“I cleaned a lady’s house and got some spare change.” Tedus lays it on the table.

Prussia has been sitting there for a while, trying to ease his boredom by writing. He’s filled up an entire notebook in the three days he’s been here so far. It’s all nonsense.

Tedus sits down, looking exhausted. “And I picked up the rations for this week. I don’t know if it will be enough for two people, but we’ll make it work.”

Prussia shifts uncomfortably. “Has anyone seemed suspicious about me?”

“Not really. Well, Mrs. Abdenour approached me today asking if I was able to get enough food, but I’m pretty sure that’s because I’m skinny and not because she thinks I’m hiding you. When I was walking around, I didn’t see any Nazis either. I told you, they don’t really hang around this part much unless they’re deliberately after something.”

“So if we see any Nazis, then we should really fucking worry.”

Tedus deflates. “Yeah.” She chews her lip. “Often they’ll have wanted posters hanging around the city if there’s an escapee, but I haven’t seen any with your face on it yet.”

“Huh…”

Silence takes over.

“Did you nap at all during the day?” Tedus awkwardly asks after a bit.

Prussia frowns. “No. Listen, at night I can sleep in the kitchen—”

“The bedroom is safer.”

“I really don’t want to keep you up with my nightmares.”

Tedus rubs her face. “It’s fine.” She pauses. “I feel like I should be hiding you better, but this house is so tiny.”

“What you’re doing is more than enough,” Prussia reassures.

* * *

 

 _23. März 1944_  

Prussia’s stomach is rolling as he attempts to work out the logistics for rescuing France.

He doesn’t know if the Nazis have moved him or not, and tracking him would be really hard if they did. And then there’s the whole aspect of _actually_ rescuing him, which means breaking into a building and killing people.

Where would they take him after that? What would Prussia do?

He thinks of Germany and Austria and is overcome by guilt. He can’t just run away while they’re still suffering back in Berlin. He doesn’t deserve to be free, especially since he can do nothing about their or Hungary’s situa—

Abruptly, he hears a knock on the door and freezes.

In the week he’s been here, that’s been happening sometimes. Usually, it’s the neighbors inquiring whether or not Tedus is home, but when it’s them, they call her name.

Whoever this is, knocks rapidly, then stops. Prussia can almost feel them hovering.

They eventually leave.

* * *

 

Tedus is pleased with herself when she gets home. “Look, real actual fresh vegetables! I just discovered this Vietnamese woman’s shop, and ahh.”

Prussia wishes he could be as excited. “Someone came today.”

Tedus’s mood quickly sobers up. “Who? Did they call my name?”

“No.”

She chews her lip. “I didn’t see any Nazis around this area, though. It could be the landlord looking to collect my rent. He’s pretty nasty about it.”

Prussia tries to believe that. “Ah, okay.”

* * *

 

_26. März 1944_

“I’m really hoping this is the landlord because someone rapidly knocked on the door again.”

Tedus just walked into the kitchen. Prussia wishes he could greet her better, but the apprehension has been eating away at him all day. It’s not like he has much else to focus on.

He’s filled five notebooks so far. He’s also been driven to the point of reading her engineering textbooks. Some things he knows. The rest gives him a headache.

Tedus looks really nervous. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry.” 

* * *

 

It’s when they climb into their beds that Tedus whispers, “I’ve been lying to you.”

Prussia, already dreading going to sleep, is now filled with a new sense of fear. “What?”

“I know who it is, the person at the door. It isn’t the landlord.”

“Then who—”

“Another way I make money is by…having sex with men. His name is Hakim. He’s clingy.”

Prussia blinks.

“I’m sorry,” Tedus blurts out. Her voice is choked up. “God, if my dad knew.”

“I,” Prussia’s mind blanks. “As long as you’re okay with it?”

Tedus’s voice breaks. “ _I’m not_. I was supposed to be a good Catholic girl and save myself for marriage, but this pays. It pays. It’s degrading. Hakim is obsessive. Mr. Abdenour thinks I treat him like a charity case too, and that’s probably why he steered me away from you when we first met, and—”

“I can—let me help you make money. You said you hadn’t seen any wanted posters with my face, right?”

“Yeah, but as soon as we get comfortable is when they’ll come and seize you.” Tedus wipes her face and takes a deep breath. “The Nazis soldiers apparently pay really well,” she mutters with disgust. “But I—No, I won’t let myself do that.”

Prussia doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t respond.

Eventually, they both drift off.

* * *

 

 _27. März 1944_  

They’re sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast. Prussia, as usual, barely slept last night. Tedus looks equally as tired.

“What’s your plan for today?” he asks after a bit.

“I have some clients,” Tedus mumbles miserably. “That’s where…I’ve been going during the day.” She then perks up. “But Mrs. Favreau usually lets me clean her house on Monday’s, so I get to do that too. With the extra change, I might go back to that Vietnamese vegetable stall.”

Prussia nods. Tedus leans her head on her hand. “What’s your plan for today?”

“Scribble in some notebooks. Attempt to understand your engineering textbooks. The usual.”

She giggles.

They finish their meager meal and clean up the dishes. Prussia pauses after a bit, though, when he remembers something.

“You looked so shy when you told me you’ve never slept in the same room as a man before.”

Tedus laughs. “I wanted to see your reaction to determine how much of a pig you were.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tedus sighs. “But it is true. I don’t go to bed at my client’s places.”

They finish up, and after grabbing her things, Tedus heads to the door. “You know,” she mumbles. “I didn’t realize how lonely I was. Your company has been nice. So…I don’t know. Thank you.”

Prussia gives her a genuine smile. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

“Don’t say that until you’re out of this rotting country.”

* * *

 

_4. April 1944_

Usually, Prussia only listens to the radio when Tedus is home. He knows if someone hears it he’s screwed, but after waking up from a nap in a cold sweat, he needs a relief to the silence.

The volume is as low as he can make it. It’s staticky, and right now instead of music, it’s playing propaganda.

He wonders if Spain got the letter but knows it’s only been a little over two weeks. He wonders what they’re doing to France, wonders if they’re looking for him. What is Austria suffering through right now? How is Germany feeling? Is Hungary just as broken as France? For whatever reason, the Italians struck a deal and got custody over her.

Prussia feels nauseous. He wishes he could save her, but knows he can’t.

Music starts playing.

How is Romano doing? Has he suffered any consequences from being rebellious? Has he been able to remain in contact with Spain? Is Italy still putting up an act?

Is Japan?

Prussia nearly breaks down into tears.

* * *

 

“You haven’t eaten anything in two days,” Tedus accuses.

Prussia was hoping she wouldn’t notice. “It’s fine.”

“It’s—no it’s not?!”

Prussia’s stomach churns. “I’m not hungry.” That’s a lie. His stomach is begging for food, and he has a headache. But those pains distract him from everything else. Those pains, he can manage. For once he’s in control.

Tedus scrutinizes him, and Prussia feels exposed, gross, and confined. He went from one small room with the Nazis to another small room with this girl. It’s better here, though. He knows it is, but he’s still anxious.

“You need to eat,” Tedus mumbles again. It’s the last time she mentions it that night. 

* * *

 

 _6. April 1944_  

Tedus comes back in the middle of the afternoon, something she never does, and Prussia nearly has a heart attack.

“Have you eaten?” she asks as a greeting.

Prussia had a morsel of bread. “Kind of.”

Tedus fidgets. “Listen…I think you need to get outside. I think you’re getting depressed from being locked in here.”

Prussia frowns.

“I—I just paid rent and have money left over, so let’s go to the Vietnamese vegetable stand. Together.”

Something begins to roar in Prussia’s ears. “This could be dangerous.”

“I know, but I just circled the entire area, and I didn’t—here.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of glasses and a newsboy cap. “These are courtesy of Hakim.”

Prussia blinks.

“If you wear these—and you haven’t shaved in a while either! No offense, you can’t grow a beard. But, uh, with all of this and putting on my dad’s clothes, you should be fine to go for a twenty-minute walk.”

Prussia self-consciously strokes his patchy facial hair. He knows it looks awful, but the task of actually holding a raiser and shaving it off is something he’s lost the willpower to do.

Tedus looks at him with pleading eyes. “I think a walk will be good. Let’s do this, okay?”

Prussia trusts her. “Okay.”

* * *

 

He didn’t realize that he lost so much weight until putting on the suit. It hides the shape of his body.

He takes the cap Tedus gave him and stuffs all of his hair into it, glumly realizing that that also needs to be cut soon. Now scrutinizing himself in the mirror, he’s tempted to shave, but he keeps the stupid looking facial hair for the sake of disguise.

He puts on the glasses last and frowns. Hakim must not be able to see shit. These glasses are screwing up Prussia’s depth perception.

Tedus is pacing when he meets her in the kitchen. “Okay, it’s—it’s 2 PM, so hopefully the streets won’t be too busy. Wait, shit, let me make sure none of the neighbors are out.”

She exits, and Prussia waits for what feels like hours until she pokes her head back inside. “Let’s go,” she says quickly.

Prussia grabs his handgun, stuffs it into his pocket, then keeps his head down and steps into the fresh air. He’s buzzing with nervousness.

But shit, does this already feel so nice—

A shrill voice calls Tedus’s name.

Prussia becomes rigid. Tedus whips her head around. “Yes, Mrs. Abdenour?”

“I…” She sighs. “Don’t bring them into your house. You know better. Last week, the landlord—”

Tedus cuts her off. “I—I’m sorry. He’s a friend. We’re going for a walk.”

She grabs Prussia’s hand and practically drags him down the street before Mrs. Abdenour can respond.

She drops his hand when they’re out of sight. “Sorry.”

Adrenaline is filling Prussia’s veins. “It’s okay.”

They walk in silence as he takes in their surroundings. It’s about as intoxicating as when he entered that office and felt the sunlight on him for the first time in months.

“…like?”

Prussia blinks, turning to face Tedus. “Sorry?”

“I said, what’s your fiancé like?”

Prussia swallows. “Uh.” He debates whether he should actually describe Spain. “She’s kind. Cheery. …She always tries to be cheery and puts on a mask because of that, but I’m one of the people she’s comfortable enough to be more open around.”

“Ah…”

They turn a corner and end up in a busy street. Tedus steps closer to him. Prussia’s eyes dart around, hoping he’s invisible enough.

“How did you meet?” Tedus murmurs. She’s a pace ahead of him, cutting through the sea of people.

“Work. She’s…also a professor—in Spain. A professor in Spain. But she came to Paris for work, and everything took off from there until…the war hit.”

Tedus looks over her shoulder.

Prussia avoids eye contact. “We used to have a lot of fun together, us two and our other friend, even if we weren’t supposed to, even if our jobs prohibited it. I—” Prussia feels choked up. “God, I hope he can make it here.”

“He?”

“She.”

They continue. Prussia distracts himself by staring at their passing environment. There are crowds of people. Vendors. They’re trying to sell things. A kid is playing with a ball. An exasperated mother is holding her baby. Someone is shouting at people to buy their newspaper.

It almost feels normal.

And then Prussia sees the beggars, the destroyed buildings, the propaganda posters, the—

There are Nazis lurking on the street corner.

They briskly walk past them.

“How much farther?” Prussia asks after a block.

Tedus smiles. “It’s just up ahead.”

Just up ahead is where two more Nazis are screaming at a Vietnamese woman in German while she yells back at them in French.

They both freeze at the same time.

“I can’t understand you!” the woman shrieks. She looks like she’s about to jump over her stall and strangle the men in front of her.

The soldiers can’t be older than eighteen. “Look at this hag,” the one spits in German.

“How threatening do you think we need to be to get half of this food?” the other responds.

The one takes out a handgun.

Prussia is moving before he can stop himself. Tedus tries to grab him, but he ignores her, his vision tunneling.

“What do you want from her?” he asks in German. It’s almost a relief to be speaking it again. He wishes it weren’t to these people.

Both the Nazis and the woman freeze. “What’s it to you?” the one sneers.

Prussia tries to swallow his nausea and fear. He stares down the one—the one kid. Shit, now up close, he looks younger than eighteen.

“Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Listen, _Frenchie_ —”

“Do I fucking sound French?”

They blink in confusion as Prussia tries to be as intimidating as possible. He has a good few centimeters over both of them.

He remembers the handgun and pulls it out slightly so they can see it. “I wouldn’t want your superiors to find out that you were screwing around during your patrol.”

The gun is clearly a Nazi design, and both pale. Prussia can feel the Vietnamese woman boring her eyes into him.

He swallows bile. “You’re a disrespect to the Führer. How dare you waste your time pestering these lowlifes. Go do something productive.”

They give him the Nazi salute, and Prussia’s throat burns as they nearly sprint away.

The one kid was definitely Tedus’s age.

She’s next to him now. People have stopped to stare.

Prussia realizes his hands are shaking. He slips the gun out of sight. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters to the Vietnamese lady, now in French. “They shouldn’t be coming back anytime soon.”

He expects her to get angry at him, demand what they were saying, doubt that he’s being nice. They did the Nazi salute at him. He spoke German. He mentioned the godforsaken Führer.

She does none of those things. “You could have been caught.”

Prussia scrunches up his eyebrows. “What?”

Tedus grabs his arm. “This was—let’s go, Gilbert. This—”

The Vietnamese woman shakes her head. “No, you—you two need to return, but when most of the people watching have gone. Come back in three hours, you hear me? You _need_ to. There’s a door to this building around the corner. Knock there.”

Prussia is taken aback. “What?”

“There’s a bounty on your head, you hear me?” Her voice is extremely hushed. “If you want to know more about that, then let’s talk in three hours.”

* * *

 

Returning to Tedus’s house feels surreal.

As soon as the door shuts, she whips around. “You speak  _German_?”

Prussia swallows. “I was a language professor.”

“So you speak French, German, and Kabyle? Are there any other ones thrown in there? Vietnamese, do you speak that?”

_Yes._

“No. Listen, Tedus—”

“They did the  _Nazi Salute_ at you.” She’s shaking. “I—”

“…”

“I thought you were going to be caught. Why the hell did you do that?”

Prussia lets out a breath. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t let them do anything to that woman.”

Tedus stares at the floor. “Well, you’re lucky because according to the fucking vegetable stand lady, you _are_ on a wanted list.”

Silence.

“Should we trust her?” Tedus whispers after a few moments.

Prussia avoids eye contact. He doesn’t know and is terrified.

“Gilbert, are you a homosexual?”

Prussia’s eyes snap up. “What?”

Tedus is pacing. “That’s why the Nazi’s persecuted you, right? That’s why you’re on the wanted list? You’re always screaming for Roderich and Ludwig in your sleep, and then you clearly said ‘he,’ and you’ve never even looked at me sexually—”

Prussia’s head is spinning. “I—What?”

“So if you’re a homosexual on the run from the Nazis, then it makes sense! Then something finally makes sense about you!” Tedus’s eyes are watery. “I—This doesn’t change anything. You don’t seem like a pervert. My dad knew someone like you back in Casbah, too, and—”

“Tedus, I, fuck, I’m not—”

She stares at him, her expression begging for some sort of answer.

Prussia grabs his hair. He doesn’t know what to tell her or what’s appropriate. If he could explain what he was, that would make everything so much easier.

“It’s my friend who’s coming from Spain. He isn’t my fiancé,” Prussia ends up getting out.

“What is his name?”

“Antonio.”

“Then who the hell are Roderich and Ludwig?” Tedus looks slightly hysterical. “Why are you on a wanted list if you’re not a homosexual!?”

“I killed some—you saw me covered in blood.”

“But why did the Nazis target you in the first place!? Don’t tell me it was because of your research. I know that’s not the reason.”

“It’s because they hurt my friend,” Prussia chokes out.

Tedus stares at him with a broken expression. “They targeted you because they hurt your friend?”

“So now Antonio is—I don’t know if he’s coming; you saw the stupid letter. But God, I really, _really_ hope he comes.”

A heavy silence takes over. Prussia feels sweaty and gross.

“Fine. Don’t tell me why you were targeted in the first place,” Tedus mumbles.

“Tedus, I—I’m sorry.”

“Is he a professor? Or was that made up too.”

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut. “He’s a professor.”

“And you’re friends?”

“Yeah, but I also love him. I’m not allowed to. We shouldn’t be close,” Prussia chokes. “It’s not romantic, though. Not him, at least.”

There are a few moments of silence until Tedus sniffs. “I’m sorry.”

Prussia opens his eyes, confused. “What?”

“I’m sorry for doubting you, and for making assumptions, and—” Her eyes tear up. “When you went towards those Nazis and started speaking German, for a few moments I thought you were deceiving me this entire time.”

“N-No.”

They look at each other.

“I know it’s not my place to beg for your backstory,” Tedus whispers. “But I was really fucking scared.”

“I’m sorry. I want to tell you, but I also want to keep you safe. Knowing will only put you in more danger.”

Tedus grimaces as a breeze rattles the door.

“Let’s go back to the Vietnamese woman’s house in a few hours,” she then mumbles.

Prussia nods.

* * *

 

It’s a tense trip.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Prussia blurts out when the back door is in sight, knowing he’s pushing his luck.

Tedus is rigid. “If you don’t want to, fine. I’ll do what you think is best.”

_What I think is best…?_

Suddenly all he can hear is France screaming.

Prussia holds his breath and knocks.

The door opens not a second later. “Come inside,” the Vietnamese woman quickly gestures.

Prussia and Tedus do so obediently.

The hallway they enter is dark, its walls littered with photographs and drawings. Prussia doesn’t have any time to observe them, though, since the woman leads him and Tedus into the kitchen.

Inside, a man is sitting at a table with what appears to be his five-year-old daughter.

“Thi Phuong, can you play in the other room?” the woman asks.

Her daughter makes a face but cooperates.

A weird silence falls once she’s gone, the only sound coming from a clock ticking in the background. Prussia’s eyes fly to it.

6 PM.

“Let me introduce myself,” the Vietnamese woman says. “I’m Le Thi Lam. Next to me is my husband, Do Van Tien. In Vietnam, you would call me Mrs. Tien, but Mrs. Do is fine.”

Prussia swallows. “Are you from Vietnam? You don’t have an accent.”

“I grew up here. Van Tien emigrated when he was fifteen, though, so he’s still a little shy about his French.”

“Honey,” Mr. Do grumbles, looking embarrassed.

Mrs. Do smirks; then frowns when she turns to Prussia and Tedus. “What are your names?”

Prussia squirms. “I’m Gilbert.”

“Just Gilbert?”

“This is Tedus. Who are you?”

“Is your last name Beilschmidt?”

Tedus’s head whips around to stare at him. Prussia feels like he has something caught in his throat. “Who the fuck are you?” he spits.

Mrs. Do is unwavering. “There’s a bounty on your head, Mr. Beilschmidt. You’re listed as extremely dangerous.”

“Who the hell—”

“What relationship does this girl have with you?”

“I’m helping him,” Tedus says, her voice tight.

“By doing what, hiding him?”

“…”

“What’s your last name?”

“Yahyaten.”

“Ms. Yahyaten, do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“Considering my father died at the hands of Nazis, yes, I do,” she spits.

“Really? Judging from your reaction to his last name, it seems you didn’t even know Mr. Beilschmidt was German.”

Tedus falters. “He…”

“Great, we have introductions. Who the hell are you two?” Prussia demands again.

Mrs. Do avoids the question. “Your French is very natural, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“I was a language professor.”

“Ah.”

“I moved from Germany and became a language professor in France, happy?” Prussia is almost shaking.

“I wasn’t questioning your legitimacy.”

“Sweetie,” Mr. Do murmurs.

Mrs. Do sighs. “You have a bounty on your head for so-called treason against the Nazi state. Do you admit to such?”

Prussia’s vision blurs, and it isn’t from the shitty glasses he’s wearing. “Yes.”

“So what’s your next move; to have this girl hide you until the war is over?

“His fi-friend is coming to help him escape.” Tedus fumbles over the word.

Mrs. Do blinks. “So you—”

“Sweetie, he’s not an undercover cop,” Mr. Do says in Vietnamese. “I know you’re trying to grill him, but clearly he’s getting more and more agitated. He _did_ help you at the market today.”

Mrs. Do sighs as Prussia swallows and repeats his question. “Who are you two?”

“We’re apart of the French Resistance,” Mr. Do says in a thick accent.

_…Resistance?_

Tedus gawks. “What? I—I thought that was just rumors one existed!”

Mrs. Do shakes her head. “It’s real. There are different factions, but we’ve been getting more and more organized lately. Our group is dedicated to helping people such as yourself, Mr. Beilschmidt, seek refuge. At the moment, we have insiders who can supply us information on who’s being targeted, as well as residencies under suspicion. That’s why I wanted your last name, Ms. Yahyaten. From what we know right now, you’re safe. I haven’t heard your household name mentioned before.”

Tedus blinks. “But there—how can Gilbert have a bounty on him? There haven’t been any wanted posters.”

“Yes, that’s something our group has been confused about as well. Apparently, the issue is meant to be handled by high-ranking Nazi Officials. Mr. Beilschmidt is regarded as extremely dangerous, so only those who have ‘experience’ are supposed to go after him.”

Prussia’s ears are ringing. “So that’s why those two kid soldiers didn’t recognize me.”

Mrs. Do frowns. “Yeah. You were lucky, because while your glasses and facial hair are off-putting for a second, you’re still an extremely tall albino man, and there aren’t too many of them around, unfortunately.”

Prussia feels dizzy. Mr. Do notices. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No. No, I…”

Tedus is staring at him, worry etched into her features.

“You seem like an ordinary man to me,” Mrs. Do murmurs. “Why do they think you’re so dangerous?”

“I murdered two Nazis.”

“You do what you need to do in war,” Mr. Do grumbles.

They all regard each other. Prussia feels panicky and unsure, like someone is going to materialize at any moment and drag him back to the dark, dingy basement to watch France—

Mrs. Do sighs. “Well, you’ve already been out on the street today. It wouldn’t be safe for you to leave again.”

Prussia blinks. “What?”

“You can stay here. Where is your friend coming from; the one who’s going to help you escape? Is there any way we can assist them?”

“My wife told you that we help people do this,” Mr. Do says calmly when he sees Prussia nervously fidget.

Tedus’s features brighten up. “The friend is coming from Spain. We sent a letter. He—He should be here on the 30th of April!”

“I can’t let you do this,” Prussia interrupts. His voice cracks.

“Then what are you going to do?” Mrs. Do asks. “Get caught and sent away to one of the Nazi’s camps? Get caught and be murdered on the spot?”

Prussia swallows.

“When did you send the letter?”

“The middle of March.”

“Hm. It looks like you have twenty-four days until your friend gets here, then. Do you know how you two are escaping back to Spain?”

“No.”

“You’re unprepared.”

“Well, maybe he isn’t.”

“Or maybe he is, so we can help you plan during the upcoming three weeks.”

“I can help too,” Tedus blurts out. “I want to help Gilbert escape.”

Prussia feels like someone has dumped cold water on him. “You’ve already done—”

“As long as you know that you may be risking your life, then that’s fine,” Mrs. Do interrupts.

Mr. Do stares at Prussia. “If people want to assist you, then let them.”

Something is screaming inside of his head.

_You don’t understand. I can’t escape. Just escaping is pointless. I have to help Francis. I—_

_I need a place to stay, though. And I need information. I finally have access to that here._

Prussia swallows. Hours seem to pass as they all await his answer.

“As long as I can help you guys too,” he eventually mumbles.

Mrs. Do smiles. “Of course.”

“And my friend—you have to help me meet him first, and then we develop a concrete plan from there.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Tedus,” Prussia says. “You don’t have to do this. You can finally be safe and forget about me.”

She glares at him. “I’m helping.”

He deflates.

“We have a bomb shelter,” Mr. Do says after a few moments of silence. “As a basement. You can sleep there. Also, the windows in the house have shades over them, and they’re never opened, so feel free to walk around. My wife runs a vegetable shop outside with her sister to make this place look as normal as possible too.”

“…”

“We have meetings every Saturdays that are disguised as poker games, so in two days you can get introduced to everyone.”

“My husband works at a nearby library under one of the men a part of our group,” Mrs. Do adds on. “Money isn’t an issue, so don’t worry about that. You’ll be staying with us for the rest of the month if that wasn’t clear. It’s the safest option.”

Prussia swallows. “Can I talk to Tedus alone?”

“Of course.”

They step into the hallway. Prussia catches a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Do’s daughter playing with a stuffed animal cat. She chucks it at the wall.

“Tedus,” Prussia starts off with when they’re out of sight.

“It’s safer for you to stay here,” she says immediately. “Especially since Mrs. Abdenour saw you.”

“…”

“I don’t know how often I can visit and not look suspicious.” Tedus’s voice gets choked up. “But this is—we’re so lucky. We need to take advantage of this opportunity.”

“Maybe I can get them to give you money.”

Tedus shakes her head. “I’m doing fine. I have my clients. The adults take care of me as well. And…maybe when the war is over, I can go back to school.”

They stand there.

“Are you angry that I’m German?”

Tedus blinks. “No, I…I guess it was just surprising, but I should have figured it out when you spoke the language so well.”

“I speak French well too.”

Tedus smiles. “Don’t forget Kabyle.”

There’s another pause as they look at each other.

Prussia then reaches out and touches her shoulder. “Hey, Tedus?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you…”

He sees her eyes tear up. “I told you not to thank me yet.”

* * *

 

Tedus leaves after dinner.

Prussia is standing alone in the dark hallway when Mrs. Do approaches him. “It’s still early, but if you want to set up your room now, we can.”

“Okay,” he mumbles.

They gather some sheets together and walk downstairs.

Mrs. Do drops a pile on the floor. “Here, grab one end of this, and I’ll get the other.”

Prussia bends over to pick it up, and the handgun he somehow forgot about falls out of his pocket.

“I stole it from one of the men I killed,” he blurts out when he sees Mrs. Do’s expression.

She mutely pockets it.

* * *

 

7.  _April 1944_  

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Prussia has bags etched under his eyes. “No.”

Mrs. Do frowns, taking a seat at the table. Her daughter is picking at a piece of bread and getting crumbs everywhere.

“Do you need us to make the room more comfortable?”

Prussia shakes his head. “The room is fine. Nightmares are the reason I can’t sleep.”

“I have tea that can help with—Thi Phuong, stop picking at your food and eat it.”

“It’s stale,” she mumbles, puffing out her cheeks. “How come _he_ gets fresh bread?”

“Mr. Beilschmidt is our guest, that’s why.”

Thi Phuong grumbles something as Prussia stares at his own piece, his stomach rolling.

He fidgets. “She can have my bread.”

“Nonsense. You need to eat.”

He stares at the table.

Eventually, Mrs. Do stands up. “I have to go run the shop with my sister.” She brushes off her shirt. “Van Tien is at work. Normally, Thi Phuong would go to her grandmother’s house, but if you don’t mind watching her…”

Thi Phuong glares at Prussia. “Mommy, this man looks creepy. I don’t want him to be here,” she whines in Vietnamese.

Mrs. Do frowns. “That’s not nice. Apologize.”

“He can’t understand us right now.”

Mrs. Do stands up and smiles, switching back to French. “Sorry, my daughter and I are arguing.” She then turns to Thi Phuong. “You and Mr. Beilschmidt are going to play. And if anyone comes to the house, Mr. Beilschmidt is going to go back to the basement, and you’re going to tell Mommy, okay?”

“Okay,” Thi Phuong grumbles.

“Good girl.” 

* * *

 

The day blurs by.

After giving Thi Phuong his bread, she warmed up to him. They then played pretend for a while. Well, Prussia passively watched while she introduced him to her complex world of stuffed-animal cat politics.

He rubs his eyes. Dinner was uneventful, and afterward, Mrs. Do drew him a bath so he could finally shave.

Prussia flops down on his mattress and stares at the ceiling.

He misses Tedus. 

* * *

 

 _8._   _April 1944_  

Mr. Do is washing the dishes while Mrs. Do is at the table with Prussia.

“Everyone will be coming over at noon for the poker game.”

Prussia frowns. “Doesn’t the authorities get suspicious with this many people gathering weekly, though?”

Mrs. Do opens her mouth; then contemplates. “Yes, in the past. But we’re lucky. One of our members is a Nazi, so now he’s able to clear anything that arises.”

Prussia blinks in surprise.

“He’s a double agent a part of the Gestapo. He’s…Konrad is the reason we knew about your bounty.”

The fact that there are double agents inside Nazi establishments gives Prussia such a feeling of _hope_ he didn’t know he was starved for.

He snaps himself out of his daze. “What about Tedus?”

“I met with her yesterday. She’s coming over as well.” Mrs. Do smiles. “Such a smart girl…I wish I could study engineering too.”

* * *

 

At noon, everyone is polite enough except for one dude, who saw Prussia and looked so taken aback that he has no idea what he did to offend the man.

“Maybe he doesn’t like Germans?” Tedus tries. They’re standing in the hallway, away from everyone.

“He’s fine with the Gestapo man,” Prussia grumbles.

Tedus frowns.

He glances back at the kitchen and watches everyone. They actually are playing poker—it’s not a complete hoax—discussing things while having fun.

There’s about fifteen of them in there. Mrs. Do is the only woman.

Prussia really looks at her for the first time. Her hair is bobbed short, and for the three days Prussia’s been here, all she’s worn is pants. Tedus, in comparison, only wears dresses.

Her face is flat while Mr. Do’s is more pointed. He also has short, bushy hair, and really thick-framed glasses.

Then there’s the dude who hates him, which happens to be Mr. Do’s library boss, William Bourseiller. He’s short, has dirty-blonde hair, and a greasy looking mustache.

Prussia introduced himself to everyone. Mrs. and Mr. Do explained that they were waiting for Prussia’s friend to smuggle him out of the country. And then that’s…it.

Prussia doesn’t know what he was expecting. Seeing Tedus again is nice, though.

“We should join everyone,” she says after a few minutes.

Prussia steels himself. “Yeah.”

* * *

 

He’s puffing away on a cigarette in the living room when Konrad, the Gestapo man, approaches him. “You were lucky when you ventured outside and ran into those kid soldiers.”

Prussia blinks. His German is soft and melodic, and he almost looks like Ludwig. It makes Prussia homesick. “I know.” He stares at the ground. “But I was going stir crazy.” _I still am, but at least it feels like I’m doing something now._

Konrad sighs. “Which is understandable.”

“What do you know about me?”

“Not much, other than that if I catch a sighting of you, I’m to stay far away and contact people who have a way higher status than me.”

“Ah.”

Konrad frowns. “So what did you do?”

“I murdered two men.”

“Others have killed Nazis before and weren’t treated with such secrecy.” Konrad blinks. “You know, even though you say this, no murders or deaths have been reported recently.”

Prussia takes another drag of his cigarette. He wishes Tedus were here to deflect this man, but she’s been talking to Mrs. Do in the kitchen for the past fifteen minutes. “Huh.”

“The only information I was given about you was your appearance and the name they said you’ve been going by, Gilbert Beilschmidt.”

“The way you phrased that makes it seem as though Gilbert Beilschmidt isn’t my real name.”

“Well, is it?”

“It is.”

Konrad stares at him. “Mrs. Do told me you were a professor, but your name isn’t listed under any of the registries for French universities, let alone any government census.”

Prussia feels sick to his stomach. “Are you trying to interrogate me?”

Konrad blinks. “Ah. No. Sorry. But if we’re to be helping you, details are important.”

They pause for a good awkward minute.

“I can get you hair dye,” Konrad then says. “I have access to that type of stuff. It should help if you need to go outside again. The glasses were a good idea too—Mr. Do told me about them. The prescription is awfully high, though.”

“I can’t see shit out of them if we’re being honest.”

“Okay, then I’ll get you something lower. Hm. Clothing is also—”

“What are you talking about?” someone asks in French.

Ah. It’s the man who hates him. Bourseiller The Ass.

“I’m just trying to help him build a disguise,” Konrad answers, switching languages.

Bourseiller scrutinizes him. “Did he tell you anything else?”

Konrad falters. “Ah, uh. No.”

“Mr. _Beilschmidt_ ,” Bourseiller sneers his last name. “You realize what you’re getting involved in, right? You realize that by helping you, we’re all putting our lives at stake?”

Prussia squirms. “Of course I do.”

“Because if you betray us—”

“I’m on the run. Why would I betray anyone?” Prussia is in disbelief.

“You’re German.”

Konrad frowns. “I’m German.”

Bourseiller is dismissive. “Beilschmidt is different.”

“I’m not going to betray anyone,” Prussia repeats.

“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

 

Everyone leaves before curfew starts getting enforced. Prussia hugs Tedus. She promises she’ll be back next weekend.

Before Konrad leaves, he pulls Prussia aside. “Listen,” he murmurs in German. “I’m going to come back in the middle of the week with the glasses and hair dye. But when I come back, I _need you_ to give me more information. Okay?”

Prussia avoids eye contact. “Fine.” 

* * *

 

_12. April 1944_

The days blur together, each becoming a dull monotony, nothing different from when he was at Tedus’s house.

He knows he’s made progress, but at the same time, everything feels stagnate.

The fact that Spain is coming in less than three weeks and that they’re supposed to rescue France soon fills him with dread.

It’s dinnertime when Mr. Do comes back from work, Konrad and Bourseiller The Ass accompanying him.

Prussia blinks in surprise as they enter the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table with Thi Phuong, feeding her the food he doesn’t have the willpower to eat when Mrs. Do isn’t watching.

Konrad sees him and smiles. He holds up a bag. “I have the dye. Took a bit of maneuvering to get it, but it’ll be worth it.”

Prussia has no idea how to dye his hair. He forces out a smile.

Bourseiller scrutinizes him while Mr. Do offers an apologetic smile. “Before we do anything, though, we have some questions.”

Thi Phuong cocks her head. “What questions?”

“Sweetie, why don’t you go play with your cats?” Mrs. Do suggests.

Thi Phuong grumbles something under her breath and stands up; then disappears into the living room.

Konrad calmly sits down at the kitchen table. “So, Gilbert, you murdered two men, correct?”

Prussia swallows. “Yes.”

“Even though I have no records that any Nazis were murdered recently?”

“Yes?”

“Where did you murder them?”

Prussia feels choked. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I…” Everyone’s stares are overwhelming. “I was being held captive. I escaped in the middle of the night. It’s—It’s near here, I guess.”

Konrad scrunches up his eyebrows. “Listen, I’m apart of the Gestapo. At no point have any of us been informed that there were Nazis holding someone hostage. Define what you mean by that.”

Prussia swallows. “They kept me locked in a room.”

“Why? How did they capture you?”

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut. His heart is beating rapidly. “They kept me locked in a room.”

“And not a camp? That would make more sense.”

“It was—it was a room, I swear.”

“You’re agitating him,” Mr. Do says.

“Sorry. Gilbert, listen.”

Prussia opens his eyes. Konrad’s expression is soft. “I want to help you.”

“I really don’t know where it is. I’m not lying, I—I swear. If I saw the building, I might recognize it, but.”

“Letting him wander the streets could threaten our security,” Bourseiller snaps.

Konrad frowns. “It could, but.” He gestures to the hair dye. “If he’s disguised and with us three while I’m in my uniform, we might be able to scout the area and come out okay.” 

* * *

 

“I feel like this stuff is going to burn through my skin.”

Mrs. Do is struggling with the dye. “Um. I’m not sure if I can reassure you on that. Konrad said to let it sit for twenty minutes, sorry.”

“Did we really have to slather it over my eyebrows?” Prussia mumbles.

“Well, it would look goofy if you had white eyebrows and brown hair.”

The bathroom is too tiny for the both of them. It feels cramped.

Konrad and Bourseiller left ten minutes ago. Mid-day tomorrow they’re coming by again to take Prussia out for a walk. His stomach is churning just thinking about it.

“I’m going to go check over some store inventory stuff. Watch the clock and let me know when I should help you rinse it out.”

Prussia stares at his ugly reflection. “Okay.”

* * *

 

Seeing himself with brown hair is goddamn weird.

Thi Phuong can’t get over it. “But why is his hair different!?”

“Because it makes things safer that way, sweetie,” Mr. Do explains for the fifth time.

“But I _don’t like it!”_

Prussia laughs.

* * *

 

_13. April 1944_

_“I don’t get why we’re putting so much effort into helping this man.”_

_“William, the fact that he claims he was held captive and murdered two Nazis that I haven’t heard about could be a breakthrough for our intel if he’s telling the truth.”_

_“Goddammit, Konrad, he’s lying.”_

_“And why do you say that? Because he’s German?”_

_Bourseiller faltered._

Their conversation petered out after that. Prussia overheard them from the hallway, holding his breath the entire time.

They’re now doing the final preparations to leave. He’s been fitted to a suit and has a cap and glasses. Konrad, meanwhile, is in his Nazi Uniform, and Mr. Do and Bourseiller are dressed in their work attire.

Prussia feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Be careful,” Mrs. Do says when they’re at the door.

“We’re just going for a walk,” Mr. Do says after kissing her. “We’ll be back in three hours at most.”

“Alright…”

When they step outside, the fresh air feels alien.

* * *

 

They walk in complete silence for thirty minutes. Their route is methodical. Do a perimeter. Go up and down blocks. Prussia is supposed to say something if he recognizes where they are.

He has no idea where they are, though. All he knows is that the building was on a corner where there was a mailbox. A lot of places fit that description.

“It definitely wasn’t in a minority district,” Prussia mumbles when they start heading down one of those streets.

Konrad nods, and they turn around. People see him and walk away as quickly as possible.

Before leaving, Mrs. Do asked if it was okay that Konrad wasn’t at work today. He explained it was fine since he told his superiors he was working off a lead for the ‘albino man.’

They walk. The streets get busier in some sections. People beg. There are propaganda posters. Prussia wonder’s what Tedus is doing, what France is feeling, where Spain is.

Austria, Hungary, Germany—are they suffering right now?

Prussia is woozy. He feels Bourseiller scrutinize him and focuses on his feet so hard that he walks straight into a mailbox.

 _“Shit,_ ” he curses in German, losing control of his presence for a second.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Do rushes out.

Prussia collapses. Suddenly all he can feel is France’s presence reacting to his. He’s freaking out; panicking. He thinks Prussia is going to hurt him.

“Gilbert?” Konrad asks worriedly.

Dazed, Prussia looks up. He sees the building. France’s presence is overwhelming, and he can feel his eyes burn with the sensation of turning red.

He hastily stands up and almost falls over again. Konrad and Mr. Do grab either side of him while Bourseiller watches.

“It’s this building,” Prussia chokes out.

_They didn’t move him. They actually didn’t move him._

All three of their heads whip around. “That building?” Bourseiller demands.

Prussia feels choked. “Yes.”

“But that’s an insurance company’s office!”

Prussia flinches. France is driving a stake into his head. It hurts. It’s a relief. He realizes he’s crying and hastily covers his face.

A Nazi exits the building and approaches them. Konrad lets go of Prussia and walks over to give a friendly greeting while Mr. Do and Bourseiller quickly lead him away.

“We’re going back home,” Mr. Do whispers. “Don’t worry.”

* * *

 

Konrad stops by later, just after Bourseiller leaves.

“I talked to the man. He’s a security guard and wanted to know if you were okay.”

Prussia stares at the carpet.

Konrad fidgets. “I told him you were drunk and that I had taken care of you. We then talked, and…” He sighs. “He’s a much higher rank than me, even just for a security guard. I tried inquiring what that building was, but he got angry.”

Mr. Do frowns. “William said it was an insurance office.”

“I’ll look more into it,” Konrad murmurs absentmindedly. He nods at Prussia. “You won’t have to worry about that place anymore, okay? I’ll see if I can shut down whatever operation they’re running.”

“…”

“I’m sure it must have been traumatic, going back to that place,” Mrs. Do whispers. “Don’t worry. We’ll definitely help you escape to Spain.”

_I can’t do that._

_I’m sorry._

* * *

 

 _20\. April 1944_  

It becomes an obsession, going back to that building. He’s been doing it daily, skirting around Mr. and Mrs. Do.

Mrs. Do catches him one time and tells him he could be jeopardizing everything, but Prussia ignores her out of selfishness. He has to check if France is there. He doesn’t get close, just near enough to sense him. Every time France reacts and freaks out, the pain that greets him is such a relief.

At the last poker game, Tedus tried talking some sense into him, out of Mrs. Do’s request, probably. But Prussia can’t stop. The whole reason he escaped was to save France, not himself.

As long as they don’t move him, everything might work out. If—no, when Spain gets here, it will work out.

God, Prussia doesn’t know what will happen if it doesn’t.

* * *

 

 _23. April 1944_   

Saturday.

Some man Prussia has never seen before is here at the poker game. Mrs. Do happily told him that he’s a British spy working with them, Aaron Fletcher.

His French is kind of shit.

“I live in Spain, Barcelona, since one years,” Aaron is attempting to explain. “My French has gotten worst. Sorry, my Spanish is better.”

Prussia twitches. Everyone is cheerily gathered around him while he and Tedus are on the outskirts.

She nudges him excitedly. “If Aaron was able to get from Spain to France, then Antonio shouldn’t have any issues either!”

Prussia feels uneasy. “Hopefully.”

After everyone greets Aaron, he grins. “I have news! Maybe I should tell first William in English, but I have news!”

As he and Bourseiller talk privately, Prussia’s stomach churns. He hasn’t gone to visit France yet today, and it’s making him anxious.

After a few minutes of spacing out, he turns to talk to Tedus, only to see that’s she’s left him in favor of Mrs. Do.

_She’s gotten more distant._

_That’s good._

Prussia feels an aching amount of loneliness.

“An invasion?” Bourseiller suddenly asks in disbelief.

Aaron switches back to French just as everyone quiets. “Yes! The Allies—they’re going to take back France. May 17th is the plan!”

Everything seems to slow down.

“Do you think the Nazis know?”

Aaron is excited. “They have vague ideas, but they are being leaded wrong.”

“Is there anything we can do to help!?”

“Yes! That is why I’ve been making rounds. They—”

Prussia blindly exits the room, stepping into the hallway.

If the Nazis here in Paris catch any wind that there might be an Ally invasion, they’ll move France. They’ll move him back to Berlin.

Prussia can’t rescue him if they do that.

_Nononono._

He panics. He feels impulsive. Maybe the man is lying. Maybe he misheard information. Prussia doesn’t have time to dwell on that, though. Without grabbing his glasses, or hat, or anything, he steps outside and bolts. Towards France—just to do a quick check.

He keeps his head down. He sees his reflection in a store window. Are his roots showing? He needs to dye his hair again.

Past the propaganda posters. Past the beggars.

It’s good the Allies are invading. It’s good, but not for France, not for Francis, because less than a month is plenty of time to—

He’s not there.

Prussia’s entire body locks up. He frantically projects his presence.

Nothing.

He’s on the verge of a breakdown. He grips his hair and paces, only freezing when he hears a door open.

It’s a Nazi guard.

Prussia nearly sprints away. He expects the man to yell at him.

He doesn’t.

* * *

 

He’s nearly hysterical when he gets back to the house. Tedus and Mrs. Do are waiting for him. He panics and tells them to fuck off. Others gather. They’re all menacingly staring at him, and Prussia starts having a panic attack, and Bourseiller screams and accuses him of selling them out.

_No. No. You don't understand._

_You don’t understand. I—_

Tedus takes him to his room, and his anxiety causes him to blackout.

* * *

 

“Why did you leave the house?” Tedus asks later when Prussia is in control of himself.

“I got nervous.”

“Mr. Bourseiller thinks you panicked because you’re a German spy, and then went off and told somebody.”

Prussia is going to vomit. “No.”

“Then where did you go?”

“A walk.”

Tedus frowns. “Do you not want the Allies to invade?”

Prussia whips his head up. “I do,” he says desperately, and he _means it_. Tears sting his eyes. “But now—” _Now Francis is in danger. Now he’s gone._

Tedus sighs. “I can’t believe you’re still lying to everyone, especially to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“But you’re not telling the truth.”

“BECAUSE I CAN’T!”

Tedus flinches. Prussia feels horrible.

She stands up, shaking. “I know I can’t ‘demand your backstory.’ I already said that. But fuck, Gilbert, you’re really hard to trust right now. Konrad says you don’t even exist in any government records.”

She leaves him alone in his room.

* * *

 

 _24\. April 1944_  

The night passes, but Prussia doesn’t sleep. He tosses and turns and thinks about how everything has been so useless, how he couldn’t save anyone, how he’s fucked up.

Everyone is suffering because of him.

He doesn’t want to come out in the morning, and Mrs. Do has to practically drag him to the kitchen around noon.

He’s taken aback when he sees Konrad, Aaron, Bourseiller, and Tedus also there with Mr. Do.

Aaron scrutinizes him. He has that kind of pretty boy face that Prussia really wants to punch. Bourseiller, meanwhile, is openly sneering.

“Gilbert,” Konrad starts off in his slow melodic voice. Prussia is frozen as Mrs. Do holds onto his arm. “We’re going to ask you some questions, okay?”

He feels cornered.

“Let’s eat first, though,” Mrs. Do says, her expression strained. She drops Prussia’s arm. “I think that’ll be better for everyone.”

They all sit down at the table, Tedus dragging him to a chair next to her.

It’s fresh vegetables and noodles—a nice meal, substantial. Not hard bread or expired milk. Everyone happily eats, but Prussia can’t stomach anything.

 _You’ve been seen_.

After a bit, Tedus elbows his side. “Gilbert, eat something.”

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbles.

“You need to eat,” Mr. Do says, carefully watching him.

There’s a knock on the door.

“That’s probably my mother with Thi Phuong,” Mrs. Do grumbles, standing up.

Prussia’s vision blurs.

Another knock.

“I’m coming,” Mrs. Do yells.

Prussia twists his head to look down the hall just as she opens the door.

It isn’t her mother; it’s two Nazi soldiers.

Prussia’s blood freezes.

“Let us inside,” the one demands in French, his German accent extremely thick.

Mrs. Do mutely complies. Konrad stands up, heading to the kitchen entrance. He’s blocking Prussia’s view.

“What seems to be the problem here?” he asks in German. His voice is calm.

“What’s your name?”

“Konrad Slesinger.”

“Step aside Slesinger.”

“What’s the problem?” Konrad repeats. “We’re simply having a nice lunch with friends.”

“ _Friends_?” the one Nazi sneers.

The other one repeats himself. “Step the fuck aside, or I’m going to report you, Slesinger.”

Konrad stiffens but complies. Prussia is exposed.

He makes eye contact with the one Nazi, and his stomach drops.

“What business do you need here?” Konrad asks.

The one Nazi is the man Prussia saw yesterday.

His expression turns furious. “How dare _you filthy piece of shit_ hide amongst these people!?”

Everyone’s eyes shoot to Prussia. The corners of his vision are turning black.

“Everyone here are civilians answering to the Führer,” Konrad says. He’s tense but still trying to maintain control.

The Nazi is ignoring him. He whips out his gun and points it at Prussia’s head. “I’M NOT GOING TO HAVE MY LIFE DESTROYED BECAUSE OF Y—”

Konrad lunges at him.

The Nazi shoots him in the arm, and he collapses, a shriek coming out of his mouth.

Prussia realizes what type of bullet that is.

_No._

Both of the Nazis point their guns at him as Konrad wriggles on the ground.

_No!_

Tedus stands up blindly.

_N̶̸̛̯̐̂̌ͪͤ̉ͮ̓O̻̯̟̻̭͈͆̈́͑͒̊̚͘!_

Prussia knocks her to the side before either of them can shoot. His eyes then turn red as he forces his body into its defense mode, its duel state. He tackles the one Nazi to the ground, but he shoots Prussia in the stomach. Prussia sees stars. He grabs a fallen plate and smashes it over the man’s head as his entire body burns. Mr. Do, meanwhile, tries to drag Konrad away. The other Nazi aims his gun at him.

Mrs. Do whips out the pistol Prussia stole over a month ago from a kitchen drawer and shoots him in the head.

The Nazi Prussia’s on top of is unconscious. Prussia’s own stomach wound is killing him. Two people run over. Someone screams.

Prussia can’t see anymore. “The bullet has poison around it,” he chokes out.

Someone yells at him. Their voice fades away.

* * *

 

There’s a cloth over Prussia’s head when he wakes up.

“It’s out,” a voice says in Vietnamese.

There’s a muffled scream, then the sound of something plunking into a metal bowl.

“Thi Lam, get me some ice.”

Quick footsteps.

A door opens. “The one is restrained. The other body with him in bunker.” It’s Aaron’s voice.

“Van Tien is talking to the neighbors, right?” Konrad chokes out.

Prussia’s heart rate picks up.

_He’s alive._

“Don’t speak. Conserve your energy,” the voice that spoke first now says in French.

Suddenly, Mrs. Do is talking. “I have the ice, Mom.”

“Good. I also need to flush out the wound. That dead boy said there was poison, right? What type of poison?”

“We don’t know, Mom.”

“He’s not dead,” Bourseiller says at the same time. His voice sounds far away.

Tedus starts sobbing.

Prussia wiggles his toes. They work. So do his fingers. He knows he was shot in the stomach, but nothing feels lodged there.

There’s a muffled scream from Konrad.

“Bite into the cloth,” Mrs. Do’s mom says. She then switches to Vietnamese. “I’m going to clean up the wound, and then he needs to go to the hospital and explain what the fuck happened here.”

There’s the sound of a door opening.

“Honey?” Mrs. Do calls. Her voice cracks.

“It’s fine. How’s Konrad?”

There’s a muffled noise.

“He needs someone to take him to the hospital,” Mrs. Do gets out. “William, it’d probably be best if you—”

“No. I need to watch over _him_ ,” Bourseiller interrupts.

“HE’S DEAD,” Tedus shrieks, still crying.

“I can take Konrad,” Mr. Do quickly says. “Ton Quyen has his car out front that he’s letting us use.”

“It happened in his home. It’s probably best he takes me anyway,” Konrad chokes out.

Prussia’s heart is in his throat. He hears them hoist Konrad up and lead him outside. The only sound now is of Tedus crying.

The door opens again after a bit.

“…restrained to a chair with a gag so he can’t bite his tongue off.” It’s Aaron’s voice.

“Good.” Bourseiller’s.

“I don’t know what to do with the other body.” Aaron’s.

“We’ll—We’ll keep it there until we know what Konrad tells his superiors.” Mrs. Do’s. “Tedus, sweetie, I know it’s tough, but you need to calm down.”

She makes a wet sound.

Prussia is terrified and has no idea what to do.

There’s then the sound of someone standing up. “I retract my earlier statement,” Mrs. Do’s mom says. “The man isn’t dead. I saw him move.”

Fuck.

Tedus makes a strangled noise. “What?”

The cloth is removed off of Prussia’s face. He flinches, opening his eyes, then blinks rapidly to adjust to the light.

Bourseiller is standing over him now. “Prussia.”

The world seems to still.

“Who are you?” he chokes out.

“I used to be France’s Nation Advisor until he was handed over to the Nazi’s.”

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Do asks, her voice shaking.

Bourseiller ignores her. “All of them saw your eyes turn red and are scared.”

Prussia swallows.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

He sits up, his vision swimming, and sees Mrs. Do grab Tedus while Aaron looks in shock. The grandmother frowns. It’s only Bourseiller who has a blank expression.

“I was taken here.”

“What?”

“I _told you I was locked in there._ ” Prussia’s voice is hysterical.

Bourseiller aims a gun at his head. Tedus yelps. “So you weren’t lying about that?”

“No!”

“And you killed two men?”

“I did!”

“Why are you in Paris?”

“Because Hitler hates my fucking guts and wanted me to watch France get tortured!”

Bourseiller’s expression changes. “What?”

“France, Francis was in there, in that fucking basement. And he was there even a month after I escaped, but yesterday I went to check, and he was _gone_.”

“What are you two talking about?” Mrs. Do asks, her voice cracking.

“Antonio, Spain—he isn’t coming here to help me escape, it was to help _him_ escape, but now he’s gone!” Tears leak out of Prussia’s eyes.

Bourseiller’s hand is shaking, but the gun is still firmly pointed at Prussia’s forehead. “Why are you committing treason against your country? You’re a _Nation_.”

Prussia’s vision blurs. “You think I _like_ Nazi Germany?”

“You’re a Nation!” Bourseiller’s voice cracks. “Nations don’t go against their countries!”

“NAZI GERMANY ISN’T MY COUNTRY.”

“I think we must calm the down,” Aaron interjects.

Bourseiller lowers his hand, but his gaze stays focused on Prussia.

“What’s a Nation?” Tedus chokes out. “Gilbert, what are you?”

“Prussia here is an immortal being that represents a country,” Bourseiller answers for him.

Everyone’s expression twists. “Gilbert, is he telling the truth?” Tedus chokes out.

Prussia can’t make eye contact.

“ _Gilbert_.”

“His eyes turned bright red, and he came back to life,” Bourseiller spits. “What do you think? They’re like demons.”

Tedus makes a muffled noise. Mrs. Do is rigid. “You expect us to believe—”

“Nations die if their countries die. Their existence is centered around living and breathing for it, so Prussia here is going against his own nature right now, which is why I absolutely don’t trust him.”

“But he saved me!” Tedus shrieks. “I trust him!”

“If what William saying is true, then this _thing_ right here is monster!” Aaron blurts out.

Tedus makes eye contact with Prussia. “I don’t care.” Her voice is strangled. “I trust you, Gilbert.”

He starts crying.

* * *

 

Tedus sits next to him in the corner, while Mrs. Do’s mother watches silently. The other three go off somewhere else. Prussia doesn’t dare ask where.

“Is Gilbert really your name?” she eventually asks in Kabyle, her voice just above a whisper.

Prussia picks at his cuticles, feeling hollow. “Yes. But most people just call me Prussia.”

“I—is that another name for Germany?”

Prussia swallows. “No. It’s a country that no longer exists.”

“Then how—”

“I shouldn’t be alive. Ludwig, the person whose name I sometimes call out to in my sleep—he’s Germany.”

Tedus stares. “Then…who is Roderich?”

“Austria.”

She’s shaking. “You’re immortal?”

“Kind of.” Prussia swallows. “We live as long as our country does.”

“Why is your existence a secret?”

He feels miserable. “Before mass media existed, it wasn’t as much of one. But …I don’t know. It just is. I mean, it makes sense. Aaron called me a thing. You’re all clearly scared of me now. My eyes _glowed red_.”

“You’re not a thing.”

“…”

“Why were they doing experiments on Francis?”

Prussia chokes back any tears. “To further research that’ll help Hitler murder people as well as reconstruct Roderich’s ‘Jewish-looking face.’”

Tedus sounds horrified. “And you had to watch that?”

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah. And then I couldn’t take it any longer, so I escaped.”

Tedus takes his hand, and Prussia’s eyes fling open.

She gives a watery grin. “Seriously, Aaron is wrong. You’re not a monster.”

He almost starts crying again.

* * *

 

He and Tedus mostly sit in silence for another two hours. The only other activity is Mrs. Do’s mom getting up at one point to fix dinner.

Which is why Prussia is taken aback when Mrs. Do storms into the house.

“Gilbert, go to the basement. Tedus, help me bring up the one dead body.”

Tedus stammers. “W-What?”

“Please. Both of you.”

Prussia robotically follows orders. He opens the door to the basement and is immediately overwhelmed by the smell. The one man restrained to the chair starts thrashing when he sees them, and Prussia almost turns around and sprints out.

Tedus and Mrs. Do grab the one man whose face is shot in, then drag him up the stairs and shut the door.

Prussia is left alone. 

* * *

 

It’s been thirty minutes.

The restrained man has been screaming so much that his voice is giving out. He keeps thrashing and making noises at Prussia, and the gag that’s in his mouth is now soaking wet with spit.

Prussia desperately tries to ignore him. 

* * *

 

After an hour of being locked down there, the door opens again.

Prussia blinks in surprise when he sees Konrad. The Nazi starts shrieking again, and Konrad gestures Prussia upstairs. He does so hastily.

The door closing behind him is an unbelievable amount of relief.

Konrad doesn’t look at him. For the first time, Prussia notices that his right arm is tightly wrapped in a sling.

“I told my superiors that the man Mrs. Do shot in the head attacked me. They tried to look up his registry but found absolutely nothing.”

Prussia blinks. “What?”

Konrad is speaking in German. “There’s nothing on him. No rank. No position. I mentioned I was investigating that insurance building, so I think they’re going to check it out now.” Konrad sighs. “What they believe is that he interrupted my friendly poker game with known law-abiding citizens, shot me, and then we killed him in self-defense.”

“So everyone here is safe?” Prussia breathes.

He and Konrad finally make eye contact. “Somehow, yes.”

Prussia can’t believe his luck.

 _But Francis is_ gone.

He flinches.

“William has explained to me what you are, as well as that there was another… Nation being held in that building,” Konrad mumbles.

“…”

“You saved everyone’s life by thrusting your body into danger.”

“You still got shot.”

“But just in the arm. And you warned us about its…odd poison coating.”

Prussia doesn’t respond.

“Tedus told me you want to rescue your friend Francis. William seems to think you’re an affront to God for wanting to do so.”

“Nations aren’t supposed to go against their country.”

Konrad smiles. “Neither are members of the Gestapo.”

They make eye contact.

“I want to help the Allies successfully invade France,” Konrad whispers. “Now that Aaron has given us this information, I want to help in any way possible.”

Prussia swallows.

“And it seems as though God has heard my prayers because suddenly I’ve been graced with the presence of this immortal being who also hates Nazis.”

“…”

“You need help rescuing your friend, right? Help our resistance group with the Ally landings, and we’ll do everything in our power to save him.”

* * *

 

_30 de abril de 1944_

_(30 April 1944)_  

It’s on a limb. The letter was vague. There was no return address. Even the location is up to interpretation.

Spain is trying not to shake. He’s slinking around like a diseased cat outside of this restaurant, this really _fancy_ restaurant filled with Nazis.

He escaped. For Prussia. For Gilbert. It’s not like his government cares. It’s not like they even pay attention to him. They won the civil war. They learned about his existence. And then they looked at him in confusion.

He’s useless to them.

No one monitored him afterward. No one cared what he did. What was he? A decoration? A doorstop?

So when he got that letter, he made preparations with his contact group and left. Gave them money. The corrupt government wouldn’t notice.

He’s here in Paris with no plan. _I want to help him_ , the letter said.

Spain grips the side of his head.

Help France? Then what? Why are they here?

Spain has heard absolutely _nothing_ from Prussia ever since the war started five years ago.

Romano stopped contacting him as soon as the war broke too. Like a desperate idiot, Spain kept sending letters. He doesn’t know if Romano has been receiving them. He doesn’t know if Romano even likes him.

He’s unstable. Desperate. Alone.

That’s it. He was alone, so when he got Prussia’s letter, got the letter and was reminded that someone actually gives a shit about him, he had to come.

People walk by. His watch ticks and ticks.

_This was a mistake. This was a—_

He senses Prussia’s presence, and everything is forgotten.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote in the beginning is from a doujinshi I read when I was 15 that has been one of the biggest influences of the AWH universe to this date. If you’re curious about other influences, [ they’re on my rec page](http://arewehumans.tumblr.com/recs)
> 
> Turns out i can still write .. really long chapters
> 
> [This is the song I was listening to when writing Prussia breaking out. Please watch the movie it comes from.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdZp3mNShi8l)
> 
>  
> 
> One last life update for me, but it’s official. I’m studying abroad in South Korea next semester at Yonsei University and will try my hand at learning a bit of Korean ;;
> 
> Thanks so much for reading ;o/


	10. el plan original

_30 de abril de 1944_

_(30 April 1944)_

Spain frantically looks around, trying to pinpoint Prussia’s presence as his heart beats erratically. What if he imagined it? What if he—

Someone is staring at him.

They run forward and nearly tackle him into a hug, knocking the duffel bag he was carrying to the ground.

“You fucker,” Prussia chokes out. “You came.”

Spain is emotionally overwhelmed. He grips Prussia’s back. “Your hair.”

“I know.”

“What the hell.” Spain’s voice cracks. “It threw me off for a second.”

Prussia is shaking. “That’s why I dyed it.”

“Gilbert,” Spain breathes. He squeezes him tighter, afraid that somehow he’ll disappear at any moment.

“Antonio.”

“I’m so sorry—the Berlin Olympics. We should have—I’m so sorry.”

Prussia shakes his head.

“Francis should have taken—”

“My apologies, but this place is crawling with Nazis, so we should probably go,” some man in a Gestapo uniform leans over and says to them in French.

Spain is about to tackle him to the ground until Prussia yanks his arm. “Antonio, it’s fine. He’s helping us.”

The Gestapo man smiles. “There’s a car waiting for us around the corner.”

Spain warily trails him after picking up his bag, noticing that the man’s arm is tightly bound in a sling.

He and Prussia are almost glued to each other’s side when they get to the car. They then climb in, Spain stuffing the bag at his feet. Up front, there’s an Asian guy at the wheel and some white man with the greasiest looking mustache Spain has ever seen in the seat next to him. Gestapo man sits in the back with Prussia and Spain, Prussia in the middle.

Greasy Mustache Man automatically swivels his head around. Spain tenses.

Prussia glares. “What?”

Greasy Mustache Man faces forward as the car pulls away. “Nothing.”

“William, I wish you’d be more trusting of Gilbert and his friends.”

“Sorry, Konrad, but I think my experience with Nations justifies how wary I am.”

“They know what we are?” Spain asks Prussia in Tagalog.

“What the hell did you just say?” William asks.

Prussia ignores him and responds in the same language. “Yeah. I—trust me. It’s okay.”

Spain stares at him. He looks sleep deprived.

“Please, Antonio.”

“Let me introduce myself,” Konrad says an awkward moment later. “My name is Konrad Slesinger. I’m a part of the Gestapo as a double agent for the French Resistance group. I joined with the sole intention of…sabotaging them.”

Spain is on edge. “How do you know Gilbert?” he asks in French since that’s what Konrad is speaking.

“There was a bounty on my head,” Prussia mumbles. “After I escaped.”

_Escaped?_

_He_ is _away from his government. But why is he working with a resistance group? What does that—_

“So one of our resistance members decided to house him after he protected her from some Nazis,” Konrad finishes.

“And you told them you’re a Nation?” Spain asks in disbelief. His head is spinning. “Gilbert.”

“Not on purpose,” Prussia says quickly. “We were attacked. I—Francis was moved. I don’t know where he is.”

Adrenaline starts pumping through Spain’s veins. “Wait, but you said in the letter—”

“They moved him. I don’t even have a plan yet,” Prussia chokes out.

“We’re going to find him,” Konrad reassures. His expression then turns dark. “As soon as we can make him talk.”

Spain’s head is spinning.

The Asian man finally speaks. “We will make a plan once we find his location.” William grumbles something. The Asian man ignores him. “This was step one, Gilbert. You have your friend. Now we can move onto step two: finding your other friend’s location.”

Prussia squirms. Spain’s head is pounding. “Where are we going right now?”

The Asian man looks into the rearview mirror. “My house. My name is Do Van Tien. Nice to meet you.”

* * *

 

* * *

 

When they climb out of the car, Spain’s legs are jelly.

Prussia helps him with his bag. “The hell’s in here?” He attempts to joke. He still looks like he’s about to cry.

Spain is also about to. “Clothing. Money. Fake document shit. You know, just your everyday things when you’re on the run.”

“Let’s hurry inside,” Konrad says in a low voice. Spain goes to pick up the bag, but Prussia angrily shoos him away.

The house they enter is closed-in and tiny. Spain can hear people in the room up ahead. It makes him feel dazed.

“Why don’t you two have some time alone?” Konrad murmurs.

William is against that. “We need to start planning for the next—”

Van Tien cuts him off. “My wife and I will prepare dinner and call you to the kitchen when it’s ready.” He and Konrad then guide William away.

Prussia nods to a door after a few moments. “We can go in here,” he mumbles.

It’s a living room, but there’s a bedspread in the corner. It’s also extremely dark. The windows are covered with thick black curtains.

“Gilbert,” Spain nearly whispers after Prussia sets the bag down. “What’s going on with Francis?”

Prussia swallows.

“‘He’s with me, here. I want to help him.’ That’s what you said. That’s why _I came_. And now he’s missing? I—help me understand.” Spain gestures around, his voice cracking. “Help me understand all of this.”

Prussia squirms. “Let me ask this first. How did you get here?”

“How did—I got fake documents and took a train.”

Prussia furrows his brow. “That—wait, that easily? But your government—”

“Doesn’t give a shit.”

“Even if you’re missing?!”

“Gilbert,” Spain says desperately. “What happened with Francis? I—I’ve been cut off from you two—from everyone since the goddamn Berlin Olympics.”

“I thought Lovino was sending—”

“He stopped in ‘39. Gilbert, _please_.”

Prussia releases a shaky breath. “What do you know about the war?”

“What do I know?”

“Yeah. Are you aware that Hitler is sending away Jews to camps?”

“I—vaguely, yes.”

“Do you know that he’s mass killing them there?”

Spain blinks. “What?”

“Gas chambers. Experiments. Starvation. Labor camps. It’s not just Jews. Homosexuals. Political Prisoners. Gypsies.”

Spain feels lightheaded.

“Anyone Hitler views less than him, Antonio. N-Nations fit that category.”

Spain’s blood turns to ice. “What has he done to Francis?”

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

“ _What has he_ —”

“Live dissections. Plastic surgeries. Poison tests.”

Nothing feels real. “ _Plastic surgeries_?”

“Yeah,” Prussia chokes out. “As a test. So that they can then turn around and do it to Roderich.”

The corners of Spain’s vision are turning black. “Is this—do all the Axis Nations—have they been—”

“I don’t know about Lovino.” Prussia opens his eyes. “I don’t know if he’s been getting his face fucked with. The last time I saw him was the end of 1940.”

Spain’s knees feel weak.

“And the end of 1940 is when they took all of us Axis Nations to watch the captured ones get dissected, so like, that was a rotten note to end on, and—”

“ _What_?”

“—Liz was there too, so I acted out, and then _I_ got dissected—”

“Gilbert.”

“—but I didn’t learn my lesson, so they sent me here, like, a year ago to watch Francis get tortured so that I would.”

The blood is roaring in Spain’s ears.

“But even before that, the Nazis cut off any contact I had with other Nations, so I haven’t seen Ludwig or Roderich in two years, and—” Prussia takes a deep breath. “S-Shit.”

Spain stumbles closer to him.

“After being here for a year, I snapped,” Prussia whispers. “I couldn’t bear watching Francis be in pain any longer, so I—I sent you that letter. The—apparently the Allies are going to invade France soon.” He gets a crazed look in his eyes. “I can’t let the Nazis take Francis back to Berlin, Antonio. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I asked you to come.”

Spain pulls him into an embrace—impulsively, selfishly.

He’s also been alone for a long time now.

Prussia lets out a muffled sob. Spain feels dizzy.

_Francis should have taken the documents._

_But instead,_ you _took them and did absolutely nothing while your government tore itself apart._

_But I didn’t—_

_Your fault._

_It’syourfaultit’syourfaultit’syour_

* * *

 

They’re both zoning out and holding onto each other when a girl enters.

Spain feels weird and recoils. Prussia’s expression is hollow. “You need anything?” he asks in French.

The girl looks uncomfortable. “Uh. There’s food now if you want any.” She fidgets, clearly trying not to stare at Spain.

“Antonio, this is Tedus,” Prussia says dully after an awkward pause. He has to clear his throat. “I lived with her for a month.”

Spain tries his best to flash a convincing smile. He still tastes bile. “Nice to meet you!”

Tedus appears shy. “Nice to meet you too.”

Another weird pause.

“I can get food and bring it to you,” she then blurts out.

Prussia shakes his head. “No, it’s—”

“Goddammit, you have to eat something, Gilbert.”

“I was going to say, ‘it’s probably better if we go into the kitchen and talk to everyone,’ but okay.”

“Yeah. Fine. Sass me. Mrs. Do told me you’ve barely eaten anything this week.”

“You know, when your friend is still missing, you don’t know if your other friend is actually coming to Paris or not, everyone figures out you’re a Nation, half of them want you dead because of that, and there’s a screaming Nazi in the basement—surprisingly, you don’t have too much of an appetite.”

“William and Aaron are asses. No one else wants you dead.”

“That’s what you focus on?”

“Why is there a Nazi in the basement?” Spain cuts in, his head pounding.

Prussia clenches up. “I was—I was seen when I went to check where Francis was being held previously.”

“…”

“So this Nazi—he and another came here. We were able to kill the one, and now we’ve been trying to get information out of the other, but even after starving him and depriving him of sleep, the shithead hasn’t given away _anything_.”

“Does he know where Francis is?”

“We think.”

Spain hears the blood roaring in his ears. “Let me see him.”

“Antonio.”

“I’ll make him—”

“Not tonight,” the Gestapo man cuts in, standing at the doorway.

Spain feels another urge to tackle him to the ground.

“Let’s have dinner,” Konrad continues, his voice leveled. “We can discuss our next steps later.”

* * *

 

Spain is introduced to everyone. He smiles, and says his name, and is polite.

But his mind can’t stop spinning.

The answer to where France is is just below them. Spain’s restless. He’s angry. Every time he looks at Prussia, he almost turns into an emotional mess.

He can’t believe all of this has been happening for _years_.

He can’t stop thinking about Romano either. It fills him with an ugly rage.

He was in contact with him when all of this shit was beginning to unfold. How dare he not tell him _anything_! Did he think Spain couldn’t handle it? They made an agreement during the Berlin Olympics to help Prussia and France stay in contact, and then he just—stopped replying!

_why hasn’t he responded why hasn’t he_

_He hates you. He hates what you did to him._

_You’re unlovable, ugly—_

“Antonio.”

Prussia gives him a blank look. “Your presence was expanding.”

Spain forces out a smile, tries to look nonchalant, knows he has to keep it together. “Sorry.”

They’re in the hallway.

“What are you thinking about?” Prussia murmurs.

Spain tries not to shudder. “Everything you’ve told me.”

“…”

“I still—they’re trying to reconstruct Roderich’s _face_?” Spain laughs, almost hysterically. “He’s beautiful! He’s—”

“Not Aryan looking.”

Spain wants to throw up. “I don’t understand why we can’t just go into the basement now and beat the living daylights out of this guy until he talks.”

Prussia leans his head back, looking exhausted. “Because he needs to recover.”

“What does that—”

“He nearly bit off his tongue the other day.”

“Threaten his family. Isn’t that Konrad man a part of the Gestapo? Shouldn’t he know that stuff!?”

“There’s no information on him.” Prussia’s expression breaks. “Him or the other asshole who came here. They’re like me. They don’t exist.”

Spain shudders. “I should have known about this. I should have—why hasn’t Lovi contacted me?” There’s a sob stuck in the back of his throat.

Prussia wraps his arm around his back, and Spain selfishly leans his head onto his shoulder, his entire body wracked with exhaustion and self-pity and _fear_.

“I’m sure Lovino hasn’t stopped contacting you on purpose,” Prussia whispers.

“I thought we _had something_. I—”

Prussia rubs his shoulder. “We don’t know how much his government is restricting him.”

“I want to see him. I want to see Francis. I can’t believe Roderich—where is Elizabeta? Where is she being held?”

Prussia releases a shaky breath. “I don’t know.” He sounds choked.

“Maybe the guy in the basement does!”

Prussia shakes his head, his mouth in a thin line. “She’s under the jurisdiction of the Italians.”

“So Francis is the only one we can rescue?” Spain’s throat is dry.

“Yes.”

Someone from the kitchen laughs.

* * *

 

_1 de mayo de 1944_

_(1 May 1944)_  

They set up a bedspread next to Prussia’s one in the living room.

It’s 1 AM. Spain knows he should be asleep.

_“We’ll all come over again around 9 AM. If you think you can make the Nazi speak; then by all means,” Konrad said. He frowned. “We don’t even know his name.”_

_Spain swallowed. “I’ll definitely make him talk.”_

Next to him, he thinks Prussia is passed out.

_“He’s exhausted. I hope now that you’re here, he’ll sleep better,” Mrs. Do said awkwardly. “He barely has since they moved Francis.”_

Spain twists and turns in his sheets.

_“What did you bring with you?” Greasy Mustache Man asked, eyeing his duffle bag._

_Spain swallowed. “Clothing. Documents. Money.”_

_“How much money?”_

_“1,000 Reichsmarks.”_

_The British spy Aaron almost choked on his drink. “How the hell did you—?”_

_“I gave information about the Spanish government, so I was paid.”_

_Greasy Mustache Man sneered at him._

Spain fidgets.

_Who cares if I give away information about my fascist government? Doesn’t it benefit you people!?_

He squeezes his eyes shut, begging for sleep to overcome him.

* * *

 

 _Prussia_ _is underwater. “So? I don’t care about this goddamn country anymore. I care about you two.”_

_Spain rapidly tries to swim towards him. He screams, but water fills his lungs._

Why!? _, he wants to shout._

_“Because we’re human beings.”_

_Suddenly, something is dropped into the water. Spain realizes it’s France. He frantically swims towards him, but Prussia gets there first. He grabs the body and disappears._

_Spain panics._

Gilbert!?

_Everything is getting darker._

Francis!?

_His vision blacks out. But then, he’s outside. France and Prussia are with him, both children._

_Prussia looks bored. “You have to have a name. Come on; don’t be like Roderich and make me name you after a horse.”_

_France scrunches up his eyebrows. “Who’s Roderich?”_

_“Ya know, Austria.” Prussia whacks them both on the back. “In order to fulfill our first pact as friends, you need to do this.”_

_Spain blinks. Now Prussia is dissolving in front of him and France is on the ground withering and screaming in pain. Spain struggles to move closer to them, but someone holds him back._

_He whips his head around._

_Romano’s expression is blank. He has the body of a child again._

_“I’ve outgrown you.”_

…

There’s screaming.

Spain sits up with a jolt. He hears someone running down the stairs as he frantically scrambles over to shake Prussia.

“Gilbert. Gilbert, please—”

Mr. and Mrs. Do appear in the living room just as Prussia opens his eyes.

They’re bright red.

Mr. Do is holding their daughter, and he immediately takes three steps back. Despite his own pounding heart, Spain tries to act as calm as possible. “Gilbert, you’re safe. You’re here.”

Prussia blinks rapidly; then buries his face in his hands.

“Sorry,” he chokes out after a few moments.

Mrs. Do appears exhausted. “Here, let me make you some tea, okay? Honey, put Thi Phuong to bed again. I’ll be up in a bit.”

Prussia removes his hands. His eyes are fading back to a normal color.

Mr. Do mumbles something while Thi Phuong makes a whining noise.

“You can go to sleep,” Prussia mutters. “I’ll just stay up.”

Mrs. Do shakes her head. Spain can see bags etched under her eyes. “I think the tea will—”

“I can make him some,” Spain says quickly.

She blinks. “Ah…okay.”

A breeze rattles the front door.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Prussia mumbles. “It was better when I was in the basement and you couldn’t hear me.”

“No, don’t say that. Van Tien and I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Gilbert. Don’t be sorry.”

“…”

“Goodnight.”

They sit in silence when she’s gone.

“Antonio,” Prussia whispers after a few moments.

“Yeah?

“Do you think Francis hates me?”

Spain’s mouth tastes metallic. “Of course not. You’re—we did that friendship pact. You’re the reason we all became friends in the first place.”

Prussia lies down. Spain waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.

“Do you want some tea?” he whispers.

Prussia shakes his head.

* * *

 

Konrad flinches when he sits down.

“Are you okay?” Mr. Do quickly asks.

He forces out a smile. “Yeah. Sorry. My bad arm just knocked against the chair.”

“You’re going to the hospital soon to get it cleaned out, right?” William asks. His mustache still looks just as greasy as it did yesterday.

“Yeah. Don’t worry.”

“Konrad, you’re really pale.”

Now he appears annoyed. “Really. Stop worrying.”

William’s concerned expression turns to irritation when he glances in Spain and Prussia’s direction.

“When can we go into the basement?” Spain can’t help but blurt out.

“We’re waiting for Aaron and Tedus,” Mrs. Do says calmly.

Spain shifts impatiently. He sneaks a glance at Prussia, only to see his face void of any emotion.

_“So you guys really don’t even know his name?” Spain said angrily._

_Mrs. Do frowned. “No.”_

_“Gilbert, have you tried anything to get him to talk?”_

_Prussia lifted his head from the kitchen table. “I haven’t been to the basement since he was first thrown down there.”_

They’re both standing in the corner now.

Konrad shifts uncomfortably. Spain notices him sweating. “William, could you grab my bag?”

William does so and puts it on the table.

“Gilbert, Antonio—I don’t know what experience you have in…interrogation, but in here are some tools that might help.”

Honestly, Spain hasn’t hurt anyone in a while and is itching to case the bag and sprint downstairs. He knows that’s morbid, but God, does he need to take his anger out on something.

There’s a knock on the door. Mrs. Do goes to answer it.

“She’s smart; you know that? I went to pick her up—engineering textbooks everywhere!” Aaron rambles in his bad French as soon as he and Tedus enter.

Tedus’s face is flushed when she walks into the kitchen. “It’s not that impressive.”

Aaron looks over the moon. “No. You don’t understand—yes! It is impressive! Because if our goal is to cut off communications and sabotage the power grid electrical, transport facilities, and telecommunications network before the D-day, your knowledge is—wow! We just have over two weeks, but we can—it will work!”

Everyone else’s interest is peaked except for Spain’s. He honestly couldn’t care less about D-day right now. It has nothing to do with them.

Prussia is grinning, though. He walks over and gives Tedus a light tap on the back. “All that studying is going to pay off.”

Now she looks embarrassed. “I don’t even know what I would need to do.”

“I would find something. We would break into a private power plant and cause a blackout,” Aaron rambles. “You could help, and we could assemble other groups to help us. We—”

“Could test the effectiveness of this by cutting out the communications at the location Francis is at,” Konrad interrupts.

Spain’s ears are roaring.

Konrad makes eye contact with him and Prussia, shoving his bag towards them. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. “Good luck.”

* * *

 

The bag feels like it weighs 15 kilograms.

“If you don’t want to do this, I will,” Spain snaps, noticing how stiff Prussia is as they stand outside of the metal door. He doesn’t mean to.

Prussia grimaces and rubs his face. “Yeah. You’re right. I don’t want to.”

“This is the man who—”

“I know who this fucking guy is, Antonio!” Prussia yells. “I’m just not that thrilled at the notion of seeing someone get the living daylights beat out of them. I feel like that’s all my goddamn life has been since Hitler came into power!”

Spain recoils, feeling like an asshole. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“…”

“I just want to find Francis.”

Prussia’s expression breaks. “You think I don’t want to either?”

Spain swallows.

“God, that’s why you’re here.”

* * *

 

It smells foul.

The man is half delirious, constrained to a foldout metal chair with bike chains. His shirt is off. It looks like he recently pissed himself.

The only light is from a dangling bulb that’s making an insufferable buzzing sound.

There’s a gag in his mouth that is soaked. His eyes are wide now, and he’s staring at Spain and Prussia.

Spain drops the bag. The man flinches.

_“What have you done to him so far?”_

_Konrad frowned. “I tried being nice to set up a relationship with him. But then just when I thought we were getting somewhere, he tried to bite off his own tongue.”_

_Spain frowned. “And that happened a few days ago?”_

_Konrad nodded. “So now we’ve been trying to exhaust him to his breaking point. No more bathroom breaks. Very little water. No sleep.”_

_“It hasn’t worked, though,” Prussia muttered._

Prussia opens the bag and starts chucking the things inside of it to the ground. There are knives. Guns. Rope.

Spain can see the man getting more and more agitated.

After a few minutes, he turns around and flashes the most unsettling smile he can manage. He forces his eyes to turn red.

The man recoils. Spain approaches him; then rips out his gag.

“Do you know who I am?” he spits in German.

The man makes a choking noise.

“If you don’t answer me, I’m going to chop off your fingers one by one.”

“Spain.” His voice is mangled. “You’re Spain.”

Prussia approaches them, and the man starts shaking. “They were right. You would revolt if not put under control.”

Prussia’s eyes turn red. The man cries out.

“What’s your name?” Spain demands.

“No.”

“Gilbert, get me a knife.”

“NO! I’LL BITE OFF MY TONGUE.”

“No you won’t.”

“There’s a table in the corner. Let me move it here,” Prussia spits.

“HELP!” the Nazi screams.

Prussia deliberately drags the table so that it makes an awful screeching sound. He seems to be getting more and more angry with each passing second. “If you keep moving, I’m going to kick you in the gut until you throw up, just like you use to do with me.”

Spain likes that anger. He feels giddy and alive, two emotions that have been foreign to him for years now.

“If you don’t tell us your name, then you’re going to have a hard time,” he says sweetly, using his fake cheery voice. “It’s not like we don’t already know it—we have a member of the Gestapo on our side—but your stubbornness will get you hurt. ”

“He doesn’t know it,” the man spits. “ _You_ don’t know it.”

“You can try and protect your family all you want, but they’re dead.”

The color drains out of his face.

_“We’ll try acting like we already know everything about him,” Spain told Prussia before they entered. “We need to make him think it’s hopeless.”_

“No they’re not,” the man spits.

“I smuggled my friend into the country,” Prussia says calmly.

“Nations are incapable of having—”

“If I did that, what makes you think I couldn’t find information on someone as low-ranking as you? Your family is dead.”

“But I’m not—”

“Sent out to Paris to oversee a Nation getting tortured, rather than being back in Berlin? You’re low-ranking.”

“I—”

Prussia’s expression is getting more and more vicious. Spain feels like hugging him. “Someone who isn’t low-ranking wouldn’t need to take this job to ensure their family’s safety. And now that you’re gone, Hitler won’t keep them around. Not with me missing. That’s why they’re de—”

“You’re lying!” the man chokes out, hysterical. “We never told him you’re missing!” He starts laughing. “So he couldn’t have killed my family because he doesn’t _know_.”

Prussia’s eyes widen. Spain feels a jolt of excitement.

“Then I’ll tell him myself,” Prussia spits a moment later, erasing the surprise off of his face.

The man freezes. “What?”

“I’ll tell the Führer myself how incompetent you and the others were when I return to Berlin.”

The man thrashes against his restraints. “You wouldn’t go back. You escaped! Stop trying to mess with my head; you _escaped_. You just said you smuggled your friend in! You lied about my family!”

“How naïve you are to think a Nation wouldn’t go back and report a traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor! You—you’re the traitor! The Spanish Nation Avatar is here because you—”

“Spain is in cooperation with Nazi Germany, didn’t you know?” Spain says smoothly. His skin is buzzing.

“No, no, no, no—”

“Prussia has always been loyal to Nazi Germany. He was just testing your competence to manage those _lesser_ Nations, and clearly, you’ve failed.”

“He was sent here to be taught a lesson!” the man shrieks. “He’s against the Führer. He—”

“You’ve failed your test,” Prussia interrupts.

“No, no, no, no—”

“ _And_ moved the French Nation Avatar to a less secure location without telling the Führer. Can you imagine what he’ll think? Especially since the Allies are planning an invasion. Moving the French Nation Avatar out of the city is going to be a messy process because of you.”

“You fought back when Müller and I entered. You’re lying. You were scared of me. You—”

“Your actions were all in the Führer’s best interest, right?” Spain says, his voice getting softer. He makes his red eyes fade.

The man is sweating like a pig.

“Maybe your sentence will be lighter if we can rectify the French Nation Avatar’s location.”

“If you were working with the Führer, you’d _know_ the new location!”

“No,” Prussia snaps. “Because you and everyone else acted against the Führer’s orders and moved him in secret.”

The man flinches.

“You don’t have to believe us. But either you tell us the new location and we release you under Konrad Slesinger’s jurisdiction, or you and your family are punished because you’re a traitor.”

“I won’t tell you,” the man spits.

“Spain, get me that scalpel.”

“IF YOU WERE WORKING FOR THE FÜHRER, YOU WOULDN’T TORTURE ME!”

Prussia laughs. “Then you know nothing about him. You’re just a goon. I’m one of his right-hand men.”

Spain gives the scalpel to Prussia. “I can’t believe someone could be so selfish and sacrifice their family because of their own blunder.”

“ _No_.”

“Can you imagine his wife here, sobbing, having no idea what she’s done to deserve—”

“NO!” The man thrashes. He starts crying.

“I wonder what they’d test on her? Prussia, what experiments did you say they’ve done in the past?”

“NO!”

“They might test poisons. Maybe even cut her open in front of everyone while she withers in agony and dies a slow, painful, death as scientists poke at her organs,” Prussia responds.

“STOP!”

“Or maybe they’d reconstruct her—”

“Trocadéro!” the man shrieks. “We moved him to that neighborhood—to a warehouse on the edge of the city near Bois de Boulogne!”

Spain feels a rush of adrenaline surge through his veins.

The man is sobbing. He’s urinated again. “Please, my wife is innocent. She—She’s innocent. I’ll accept the Führer’s punishment, but spare her. She—She knows nothing about the war. She doesn’t even know what Nations are!”

“Maybe you should have thought of that beforehand,” Prussia sneers.

Spain smiles.

* * *

 

“That wasn’t long,” Konrad says, frowning.

“He snapped.” Prussia looks in disbelief. “He didn’t give us an exact address, but apparently Francis is in Trocadéro.”

Spain notices that Konrad’s still pale. “What did you do?” he asks.

“All we did was threaten him,” Spain says.

Everyone starts talking at once.

“Do we keep him alive down there?”

“We can’t release him.”

“Maybe he was lying.”

“We should keep him alive,” Konrad cuts in. “At least, until we can confirm what he said. Gilbert, come over here.”

While Prussia gives Konrad the exact details of what happened, Tedus cautiously approaches Spain.

Spain is on cloud nine from finding out France’s location, so when he smiles at her, he means it.

She studies him. “How did you do it?”

“Seeing us scared him shitless.”

Tedus gets a weird expression on her face. “You two are far from scary looking.”

Spain makes his eyes flash red. She nearly falls backward in surprise.

“Don’t bully her!” Prussia calls.

“I’m not!”

He ignores William and Aaron staring at him in disgust.

* * *

 

Tomorrow is when they’re going to Trocadéro.

Following their explanation, Konrad talked to the man in the basement. Sven Glöckner is his name. They gave him food, they let him take a shower, Mrs. Do tended to his tongue, and Glöckner in return gave them the exact address for where France is being held.

Prussia and Spain stayed away while all of this was happening.

Glöckner is now convinced that Prussia and Spain are working for Hitler. Konrad told him that because he’s cooperating, his punishment would be light. In the meantime, he’s staying in the basement, but he’s no longer chained to a chair.

It’s around dinner time. Spain is antsy. He wants to drive to Trocadéro _now_ but knows it isn’t practical.

Aaron has a map of Paris thrown over the table that everyone has gathered around, except Konrad, who stumbled to the bathroom a little while ago.

Aaron circles something and speaks in short deliberate sentences. “One private power plant is here. The Nazis have taken over all of them. We would need to break in. I can get in contact with guerrilla force members.”

William looks uncertain. “None of us are militarily trained, though, so we’d have to trust these guerrilla fighters with everything.”

Aaron frowns. “Yes. I’m not sure if we want to completely destroy the building either, so what they need to doing—I don’t know. We want to be certain communications are at least down for the D-Day.”

“I think—”

“Gilbert and Antonio are immortal,” Tedus cuts in. She then appears nervous when everyone looks at her. “So, we—they could break in, not the guerrilla force people. I could go too! I—if one of you can get me the right materials, then I can try to make a signal jammer. That way, the people there won’t be able to send out a distress call.”

William and Aaron warily glance at Spain and Prussia. Mr. and Mrs. Do look excited.

Prussia frowns. “Tedus, I don’t think you should be—”

“Don’t act like my guardian.”

Spain isn’t sure he wants to break into a power plant. “How will this benefit Gilbert and I? I understand it could help all of you with D-Day, but what about us?”

Mrs. Do frowns. “If we cut all the electricity in the area, the people guarding Francis won’t be able to call for backup. If you’re willing to wait, we can sabotage the electrical grid a week before D-Day on the 17th. You guys can rescue Francis during that time span.”

Prussia makes eye contact with him. “Antonio, this is the best plan we have so far.”

Spain doesn’t want France to suffer any longer than he has to. “But we could easily get him if we used brute force.”

“No, they—they have specific weapons designed to subdue Nations easily. We can’t just rush in. We would need backup, and we sure as fuck wouldn’t want them to contact anyone about what’s happening because then they could easily capture Francis again.”

Spain scrunches up his eyebrows. “Wait, what weapons?”

“Yeah, what weapons?” William asks, now seeming intrigued.

Prussia swallows. “They have these specific ‘poison bullets’ that a Nation reacts horribly to because of some compound in our blood. I don’t know the specifics, but if we’re shot by normal bullets, as long as they’re removed, we can heal almost right away. That’s not the case with these poison ones.”

“You said the bullet Konrad was shot with had poison on it,” Mr. Do says. “So that was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Where _is_ Konrad?” William asks. “He’s been in the bathroom for a while.”

Mr. Do stands up. “I’ll go check.”

Spain swallows a lump in his throat after he leaves. “So what; now we need to rely on the assistance of a guerrilla group to help rescue Francis?”

Prussia stares at him. “We have no choice. Breaking into the power plant we might be able to manage on our own because they have no idea what Nations are, but this base is a completely different animal.”

“Where are you going after this?” Mrs. Do asks. “Once you rescue Francis. Sorry, but I don’t think this was ever discussed.”

Tedus frowns. “Yeah. Wait, are you still going to Spain?”

Spain blinks. He hasn’t really thought of the ‘after’ yet either. In the two days so far, Prussia hasn’t brought it up once.

Prussia stares at his hands. “If the Allies are going to liberate France, then they should take back Francis.”

Spain frowns. “So are we going to wait in Paris with him until they come?” The thought actually sounds dream-like.

“Antonio.” Prussia’s voice cracks. “I don’t think you understand how far gone he is. There’s no way I could stay around him.”

“Then what the fuck? Where are you going to go?”

“Back to Berlin.”

Dead silence.

“No you can’t,” Tedus says first. “No, you—Gilbert, what the hell? _No you can’t._ ”

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut. “Ludwig and Roderich are there. I can’t—I don’t deserve to walk free while they suffer.”

Spain feels lightheaded. “So what; you rescue Francis and _bail_? How can you be sure that he recovers? That nothing happens to him!?”

“Because we’ll burn his body and bury it somewhere.”

“The Allies won’t find him that way!”

“Then send the location’s coordinates to Lovino,” Prussia snaps.

“HE HASN’T RESPONDED TO ME SINCE ’39!”

“Why the fuck are you getting angry at _me?_ ”

“Because you can’t go back to Berlin!” Tedus cuts in.

“How can we be sure you won’t sell out our resistance group when you go back?” William snaps.

Prussia glares at him. “Do you really think I’d do that; after all we’ve been through!?”

Spain’s head is spinning. “So then what do I do after all of this?”

“Go back to Madrid? Fuck, Antonio, we shouldn’t even be here!”

_I’m going to be alone again._

_No, no—_

“Let’s calm down,” Mrs. Do says sternly. “Okay? Gilbert, where would you even put Francis’s body?”

Prussia avoids eye contact. “A coffin? If we burn it, the ashes will reform slowly in a gruesome as hell process. He’ll definitely remain dead for at least a month in his current state.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to keep him with us?”

“Because he’s a liability that could get all of you killed.”

_I’m going to be alone again._

“When Antonio and I leave, you should forget about us.”

 _Gilbert_.

“Don’t ever mention us. God, if the invasion fails, then—”

Mr. Do stumbles into the kitchen. His face is pale.

Mrs. Do frowns. “Honey, where’s Konrad?”

“He—He’s dead.”

* * *

 

_2 de mayo de 1944_

_(2 May 1944)_  

Spain, Prussia, Mr. and Mrs. Do’s daughter, and Mrs. Do’s mom are all sitting at the kitchen table.

Thi Phuong is scribbling different drawings and showing them to her grandmother. Prussia and Spain, meanwhile, have been dully staring off into space for the past few hours.

Everyone else is at Konrad’s funeral.

Septic shock. That’s what the autopsy concluded.

They immediately called an ambulance, and Spain and Prussia hid in Mr. and Mrs. Do’s bedroom the entire time. Afterward, several Nazis stopped by the house. Some yelled at Mr. and Mrs. Do. Others offered their condolences.

The entire thing was nerve-racking.

Konrad’s boss came over, vowing that he would ‘take down’ the insurgent group members responsible for Konrad’s death. He then thanked the Do’s and William for being such upholding members of the state.

Aaron and Tedus escaped elsewhere during all of this.

William was insistent on a funeral. Normally, any German officer would be taken back to Germany at the request of his family, but Spain and Prussia learned that Konrad’s parents and sister were killed during a British air raid. So Spain doesn’t know what type of persuasion William used, but now Konrad’s funeral is being held outside of the city, up north in William’s hometown.

Spain leans his head on the table as Thi Phuong shows her grandmother another drawing of a cat.

Sven Glöckner is still in the basement, and no one knows what to do with him. He’s a liability. A threat.

Prussia stands up.

Spain frowns. “Are you okay?”

“I need to take a walk,” Prussia gets out. “I need—I’m going stir crazy.”

“You know I can’t let you leave the house,” the grandmother says, frowning.

Prussia makes a noise as Spain gets up, guiding him to the upstairs hallway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks after a few moments.

Prussia has bags embedded under his eyes. “I can’t believe he’s dead.” His voice shakes.

“Humans die.”

“I _know that_. But God, he’s the first German double agent I’ve seen since this goddamn war has started, and that made me so hopeful, but now he’s dead. He’s fucking dead because I was caught by—good old Sven in the basement here!”

He’s shaking. Spain reaches out and touches his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

“Then whose is it!?”

Spain doesn’t know what to do. “Sven Glöckner’s.”

“…”

He suddenly feels drunk. “Would it make you feel better if he’s dead?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Because I could kill him.” Spain wants to ease Prussia’s suffering. He wants to have the old Prussia back—the confident Prussia, the one who was aloof and never gave a shit.

Instead, there’s this imposter.

Is Spain an imposter too? He feels alien. Detached. Prussia actually started crying when Konrad’s dead body was carried downstairs, and Spain couldn’t even shed one tear.

He robotically moves away. “Let me kill him.”

* * *

 

Spain stumbles down the stairs, feeling crazed. Something is taking over his mind, the same entity that made him try to kill Romano when he told Spain he was leaving for good.

Prussia is also going to leave him.

No. Prussia _has_ left him, and there’s this imposter all because of the goddamn _Nazi_ in the basement.

He barges into the kitchen, the grandmother and granddaughter jolting back in surprise, and grabs the keys to the basement. He then blindly reaches for a kitchen knife.

“What the hell are you doing?” the grandmother blurts out in Vietnamese.

She and Spain make eye contact. “What are you doing?” she repeats in French.

“I’m going to kill the fucker in the basement,” Spain says in Vietnamese.

Before either of them can respond, he storms into the far hallway where there’s the ugly, metal door to the basement. He expects Prussia to come downstairs.

He doesn’t.

Spain opens the door, hearing Glöckner jump; then slams it shut behind him.

Glöckner backs up against the wall when he sees him. “What are you doing?”

Spain knows his eyes are bright red. “Konrad Slesinger is dead because of you.”

“W-What?”

Spain holds up the kitchen knife. He feels a rush of adrenaline that always comes before he kills someone.

“No,” Glöckner says meekly.

Spain lunges for him.

* * *

 

“What are we going to do with the body?”

Spain’s blood-soaked clothes are bunched together on the floor. “I hacked it up into pieces, so we’ll burn it or something.”

“Jesus, Antonio, what the fuck.”

“Should I have kept Glöckner alive?”

“…”

“You didn’t stop me from killing him.”

Prussia’s voice is quiet. “I’m happy he’s dead.”

That’s all the reassurance Spain needs to feel something bubble inside his chest. It’s not far from insanity.

_It’s the old Prussia—the old Gilbert. Now he’s back._

Prussia drops the cloth he was using to clean Spain’s face, and they make eye contact.

_Now I can make him stay._

“You don’t have to go back to Berlin.”

“Antonio, you know I do.”

Anger washes over him. “Roderich and Ludwig can—”

“Don’t—please don’t argue with me on this.”

“Don’t I matter?”

Prussia blinks. “What?”

After everything, tears finally prick the corner of Spain’s eyes. “Don’t I mean more to you than them? Me, you, Francis—we have a pact! You pulled _us_ aside during the Berlin Olympics. Not Roderich! Not Ludwig!”

“I—”

“And I’m the one who came! I’m the one who broke the rules! You, Francis, and I—we could—”

“Francis deserves to be with the other Ally Nations.” Prussia looks broken. “You think I don’t want to stay? You think I’m not terrified?”

_Don’t leave me._

“I want to stay with you,” Spain chokes out. “Don’t I matter?”

“That’s the thing; you don’t. I don’t either.”

“But—”

“We’re not humans. And the moment we blissfully forget that people _die_.”

Silence.

“Sorry,” Prussia mumbles. “I don’t really mean that.”

Spain stares at his bloody clothes. “I just want you to be happy,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

 

They’re still in the upstairs bathroom, doing absolutely nothing, when Mrs. Do thrusts open the door with a panicked look on her face. “My mom said—” She pauses when she looks at them; then rubs her face. “She made it seem like you two were going insane.”

“Antonio killed Glöckner.”

Mrs. Do blinks, staring at Prussia. “What?”

He nods his head towards Spain’s ruined clothes.

Mrs. Do closes her eyes. Spain expects her to get furious.

But instead, all she says is, “Thank God.” 

* * *

 

“You scared the shit out of my mom and daughter, though,” Mrs. Do says as she fixes dinner. The two in question left to go to her sister’s house.

Mr. Do and William are at the table with Spain and Prussia.

Spain’s mood has crashed in the three hours since the murder. He feels lightheaded, like he doesn’t really exist. “Sorry.”

“If you didn’t do it, one of us would have,” William mutters. He has bags engrained under his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Prussia whispers.

“Gilbert, we already told you it wasn’t your fault,” Mr. Do says softly.

He clenches his fists.

There are a few moments of silence.

“We purchased a coffin and another grave site,” Mr. Do then says. William looks like he’s about to cry.

Prussia blinks. “What?”

“When you rescue your friend, you can bury him in William’s hometown. If the Ally invasion ends up being successful, William can easily retrieve him.”

Spain’s stomach feels sick. They really are going to leave Francis, and then return to their normal lives. Everything right now, it’s a fluke. Fake.

“Thank you,” Prussia chokes out. “You didn’t have to—”

“This is what Konrad would have wanted,” William nearly spits. “So we sure as hell are going to see this plan through, whether I trust you Nations or not.”

* * *

 

Tomorrow, they’re going to France’s supposed location to scope it out.

In the meantime, Spain and Prussia are lying on their bedspreads, attempting to get some sleep.

Spain’s about ready to give up.

“Gilbert,” he murmurs after a while.

“What?” Prussia grumbles.

Spain suddenly feels an aching amount of loneliness. “Can I touch you?”

“Excuse me?”

Spain abruptly feels hot. “Not like that. I just—not like that.”

Prussia rolls over so that they’re looking at each other. “Then like what?”

Spain worms his way into Prussia’s chest.

He expects him to make a comment, reject him. They’re close, but not like this.

Instead, all Prussia does is take a deep breath and rest his hands on Spain’s back.

* * *

 

_3 de mayo de 1944_

_(3 May 1944)_  

The car is silent.

William and Mr. Do are up front while Prussia and Spain are in the back. Tedus and Aaron also stopped by the house, but Aaron brought a bunch of electrical shit with him that he wanted her to tinker with, so they stayed behind.

The place is about an hour away from Mr. and Mrs. Do’s house. Though William’s car has a radio in it, it’s very staticky, and even when they can get it to work properly, all that’s playing is German propaganda.

Spain dully stares out the window.

When he woke up in the morning, he and Prussia had rolled away from each other in their sleep, so it’s like nothing ever happened.

He has a headache. After Romano grew up and _left_ , suddenly Spain became hyper-fixated on him to the point where he thought he developed feelings for him. But now after not hearing from him for so long, it’s like his mind is pathetically latching onto a new victim.

Who’s also going to leave.

“How much longer do we have?” Prussia grumbles.

Mr. Do checks his watch. “Should only be twenty minutes now.”

Spain doesn’t want—he doesn’t _want_ to develop feelings. He knows how immoral that is. Fuck, Prussia would be disgusted if he found out.

Spain chews on his tongue, desperately trying to redirect his thoughts, but they end up on France, and then he feels even worse.

_“You murdered Glöckner?” Aaron asked in Spanish, for once, his accent sounding natural. His expression was pissed. “You murdered him before we had a chance to confirm Francis’s location wasn’t a lie!?”_

Spain closes his eyes and leans his head against the window.

 _FranicswillbeathislocationFranciswillbeatthislocationFranciswill…_  

* * *

 

There’s a gate, so they can’t directly pull up to the building, but it’s still visible from where they are on the street.

It’s a metal warehouse. There are two huge garage doors, a roof level, and no windows. It’s on the outskirts of the Bois de Boulogne park, so there’s nothing but it, the shitty road they’re on, and the surrounding trees.

“How close do you need to be to sense another Nation’s presence?” William asks.

Prussia and Spain have both been projecting theirs ever since William pulled over the car, and they’ve felt nothing.

“Maybe a little closer,” Prussia says, chewing his lip.

He and Spain are both in disguise, but the people here know about Nations. They need to be careful.

Spain grabs the door handle. “I’ll go. They might not recognize me if I’m seen.”

Prussia nods, and he cautiously steps outside.

As he walks closer, he tries to analyze any possible way they could break in. They’d have to ram down the gate and get through the garage doors. And they’d need to be quick. Someone could easily shoot them from the roof.

Spain still doesn’t feel France.

He presses his face against the gate.

They wouldn’t keep him on the first level of the garage. That would be stupid. There has to be a basement.

Nothing.

Spain feels agitated and projects his presence with as much forcefulness as he can muster.

He’s suddenly smacked in the face as France responds.

Spain nearly collapses. He almost starts laughing but instead makes himself stumble back to the car. Prussia opens the door. He’s flinching, yet gives a smile of relief.

Spain reaches out and squeezes his arm.

“You take the pictures?” Mr. Do asks.

Spain snaps himself out of his daze and sees William holding a camera.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

 

“It’s a transmission blocker.” Tedus looks embarrassed. “Well, an attempt at one. I don’t think it’ll work yet, but.”

“Tedus, this is amazing.” Prussia is grinning. Spain’s head feels clear.

“You were lucky Glöckner had telling the truth,” Aaron mutters.

“We took pictures.” William sets his camera down on the table. “So we’ll start strategizing. We would have to dismantle the nearest power plant the day before we’d tackle this place.”

“Then what date do you want?”

“The 10th for the power plant. The 11th for the Nation.”

“That’s fast.”

“I know, but D-Day is on the 17th, so if this fucking thing is to work, we need to be fast.” He pauses, then gets choked up. “Besides, Konrad would have wanted it this way.”

It gets quiet.

Eventually, Aaron speaks in English. “I’ll get in contact with some guerrilla fighters I’ve been exchanging information with for a while.”

“Thank you,” William whispers in heavily accented English.

* * *

 

_4 de mayo de 1944_

_(4 May 1944)_  

It’s around 1 AM.

“They’re not doing this for us; they’re doing it for Konrad,” Prussia mutters.

He and Spain are side by side, their arms touching. Spain’s head is tight.

“It doesn’t matter. As long as we can rescue Francis, it doesn’t matter.”

Silence overtakes them.

“Gilbert,” Spain then breathes.

“What?”

“I know—I know you’re returning to Berlin after this, but.”

“…”

“Just—one day. Can I ask you for one day where we—I don’t know, we do something normal?”

He feels Prussia rub his face. “We’ll see what happens, Antonio.”

“Jesus Christ, why—”

“If we somehow manage to rescue Francis, then I don’t want to jeopardize him by enjoying myself.”

“Gil—”

“I don’t deserve to enjoy myself. Okay? I don’t.”

“Then for me?”

“What?”

Spain’s voice cracks. “I’m doing all of this for you. So can you give me one day—for me? Can I be selfish?”

Some time passes.

“I’ll think about it,” Prussia eventually whispers.

Spain closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> commission from drisrt.tumblr.com
> 
> (no OC character is safe from death)


	11. Freund, Ami, Amigo

_4\. Mai 1944_

Prussia rubs his face. “We’ll see what happens, Antonio.”

He can feel Spain bristle. “Jesus Christ, why—”

“If we somehow manage to rescue Francis, then I don’t want to jeopardize him by enjoying myself.”

“Gil—”

“I don’t deserve to enjoy myself. Okay? I don’t.”

_Konrad is dead because of me. Ludwig and Roderich are still suffering. Liz is getting her body torn apart somewhere. And what? I’m supposed to have fun and pretend like none of this is going on?_

“Then for me?” Spain whispers.

Prussia blinks. “What?”

“I’m doing all of this for you. So can you give me one day—for me? Can I be selfish?” Spain’s voice cracks.

Prussia squirms.

 _He came to Paris_ , something whispers to him.

_He helped get the information out of Glöckner._

_He’s been supportive._

_You wouldn’t be pretending everything is normal for yourself; it would be for him._

“I’ll think about it,” Prussia whispers.

He hears Spain sigh. 

* * *

 

 _5. Mai 1944_  

Bourseiller is frantically flipping through documents at the kitchen table. Today and yesterday, he arrived at 5:30 AM to start sorting through this shit. While Aaron has been getting in contact with other resistance group members, he’s been sending out telegrams, trying to get a layout of the nearest power plant to ‘add to the archives’ of the library he manages.

Tedus saw a bunch of her customers yesterday, so today’s she’s here as well, in the living room with Prussia and Spain.

They’re surrounded by her electrical equipment.

Spain gave half of the money he stole to Aaron so that he could buy her better parts. She’s currently examining them.

Prussia holds up some funky metal thing with wires sticking out. “The hell is this?”

Tedus glances up and squints. “Uh. Something.”

“Cool.”

Bourseiller loudly grumbles to himself from the other room.

“Do you think you’ll be able to make this?” Spain asks, angrily shoving one of Tedus’s textbooks aside.

A look of uncertainty crosses her face.

“Because if you—”

“Antonio,” Prussia cuts in. Spain has been in a foul mood so far today, and Prussia knows it’s because he’s restless. He’s also kind of in a shitty mood, but he doesn’t want to take it out on Tedus of all people. Bourseiller The Ass seems like a better target.

Prussia can barely feel any animosity for him now, though. Not after Konrad’s death and how broken…William has been since it.

“I’m going to try,” Tedus says quietly. “I really am.”

Spain mutters something to himself.

* * *

 

 _6. Mai 1944_  

“Have you thought about it?”

Prussia is startled. It’s near two AM, and Spain hasn’t said anything in the past half hour. “What?”

“Having a day to ourselves. Have you thought about it?”

“You want an answer now?”

“Considering in four days, we’re supposed to attack a power plant? Yes.”

Prussia rubs his face, feeling anxiety climb up his throat. “I don’t know.”

“…”

“What would we even do?”

“I dunno,” Spain mumbles. Prussia can hear him fidget.

He rolls over and touches his arm so that he’ll stop.

“Maybe we can do something in William’s hometown,” Spain blurts out. “Something touristy.”

Prussia drops his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

“…”

“We don’t know how much time we’ll have to burry Francis. We don’t even know what state he’ll be in when we rescue him.”

“How bad is he? You make it seem like he’s not even fucking there anymore.”

“You sensed him freak out, so you should—”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

Prussia squeezes his eyes shut. “He doesn’t even recognize me anymore, Antonio, okay?”

* * *

 

l͉͎ͫͪ̎e̙͔ͩ͌͆ ̋1̗̫̯̝ͧ̑ͪ̅̈́1͓̞̺͍̫̑̐ͩͪͧ ͛m̝̞̯͗́ͭ͐̐̒͊ͩ̍ả͍̙̙̰͓̹̪̙ͨͪ̋́̿ȋ͕͍͙̙ͭ ̎1͓̃ͬ̑̒ͣ̽ͯ̐ͅ9̺̰̺͙͖̲͍̄̑̎̍͆ͦ͒4͎̭͙̙̥̗ͨ̔̈́4͙͓̥̝̓̎̽͑

 

Pain. Darkness. More pain. Sometimes relief. Very little relief. Intense headaches. Pain. It’s a cycle. A cycle he can’t break. How long has he been here? Time has since lost meaning. Everything has lost meaning. He screams. He begs. No one ever comes. He struggles to remember. He struggles to comprehend. He can’t hold onto clarity. He wants to. That’s a lie. Sometimes he gives into the pain because it’s easier. Trying to think and comprehend is exhausting. It ends in more suffering. His body tells him he should run and fight back, but he doesn’t have the strength to do that anymore. Maybe in the beginning. But now he’s weak and alone and trapped and what—

No. No, no, no, no—

It’s that presence, that goddamn presence again. Fear. Fear because pain comes next. He’s going to be in pain. He waits for someone to grab him and the agony to start but.

No, the presence is distant. Wait, is that another? Noises. There are noises above him.

A gunshot. The presences. He’s afraid. He wants to curl up. He can’t he’s—he’s chained to a bed. Why won’t the noises—

_It’s Spain and Prussia._

He’s freezing. He’s shaking. The pain is going to start.

_It’s Antonio and Gilbert._

Pain. Darkness. More pain. Sometimes relief. Very little relief. Intense headaches. Pain. It’s a cycle. A cycle he can’t break…

* * *

 

 _10 de mayo de 1944_  

Spain is jittery.

Somehow, everything is working out so far. They’re on their way to the power plant. William managed to get the layout of it. Tedus built her transmission blocker. Aaron was able to organize something with some other French resistance fighters…

Spain doesn’t know what to do with himself. He glances at Prussia, who’s staring out the window with a blank expression on his face, and then back at his hands.

William and Tedus are also in this car. The guerrilla fighters are in a separate one. The plan: William has an appointment with one of the Nazis now controlling this place. He was already vetted—the Gestapo had only good things to say—and Spain and Prussia are going to accompany him. Tedus will then stay in the car and activate her device as the guerrilla forces outside create a diversion. That’s when Spain, Prussia, and William will leave bombs all over the inside. They’ll then escape quickly with Tedus’s help and head to Trocadéro.

Once there, they’ll camp out and attack Francis’s compound early in the morning; around 3 AM. It will be harder for them to see, but it will also provide more cover, plus catch the Nazis there off guard.

Aaron and Mr. and Mrs. Do are currently in William’s hometown, waiting for them to bring Francis.

The car bounces over the uneven road, and Spain wishes it wasn’t so silent. His nerves are eating away at him.

He doesn’t know what will happen if they fail.

He doesn’t know what will happen if they succeed.

* * *

 

l͉͎ͫͪ̎e̙͔ͩ͌͆ ̋1̗̫̯̝ͧ̑ͪ̅̈́1͓̞̺͍̫̑̐ͩͪͧ ͛m̝̞̯͗́ͭ͐̐̒͊ͩ̍ả͍̙̙̰͓̹̪̙ͨͪ̋́̿ȋ͕͍͙̙ͭ ̎1͓̃ͬ̑̒ͣ̽ͯ̐ͅ9̺̰̺͙͖̲͍̄̑̎̍͆ͦ͒4͎̭͙̙̥̗ͨ̔̈́4͙͓̥̝̓̎̽͑

 

Why are there so many gunshots why are there so many gunshots why are there so many—

_“Think of it as thunder.”_

_“What?”_

_“Over this gross trench. Think of the noise as just being thunder.”_

England. Arthur. He said that. He said that during the Frist World War—in the trenches! England. How could he forget about England? How could he forget that Arthur exists?

_It’s Antonio and Gilbert._

France starts sobbing. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s in pain. He’s frightened beyond all belief.

_I want to die._

* * *

 

_10. Mai 1944_

Prussia knows William was integral to getting inside this damn power plant, but he has no idea why the man was so insistent on helping him and Spain plant the bombs.

_“I’ve memorized the layout of this place,” William snapped. “So I know what I’m doing.”_

Prussia feels dazed.

In front of him is a man he shot in the head. Outside there are gunshots. Something exploded there too.

He forces himself to move. He already placed the bombs he needed to, and they’re on a timer, so he has to be quick.

He’s at the entrance. Spain and William are supposed to meet him there. Why aren’t they there?

_Fuck. Fuck._

Prussia frantically runs, projecting his presence—

He and Spain nearly run into each other.

“Where’s William?” Prussia blurts out.

An explosion from outside.

Spain’s eyes look crazed. “I don’t know, but I heard some gunshots nearby.”

He then starts running, and Prussia follows him, only to yank him back before he turns the corner.

Bullets ricochet off the wall. Spain readies his gun and jumps around the corner to retaliate, immediately getting shot in the arm.

He barely flinches and shoots the Nazi in the head.

Prussia is about to scream for William until the man himself appears and grabs both Prussia and Spain’s shoulders.

An explosion.

William’s eyes are nearly bugging out of his skull. “Come on!”

“Where the fuck were you?” Prussia yells as they sprint down the hall.

“That man was—he was hunting me!”

They’re almost at the entrance.

Prussia then senses a Nazi emerge from what he previously thought was an empty storage closet. The man takes aim. Spain is still healing, so Prussia readies himself to block everyone, but instead—

The Nazi drops his gun and throws one of their own bombs at them.

William runs forward.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Prussia shrieks. “LET US—”

It explodes.

* * *

 

l͉͎ͫͪ̎e̙͔ͩ͌͆ ̋1̗̫̯̝ͧ̑ͪ̅̈́1͓̞̺͍̫̑̐ͩͪͧ ͛m̝̞̯͗́ͭ͐̐̒͊ͩ̍ả͍̙̙̰͓̹̪̙ͨͪ̋́̿ȋ͕͍͙̙ͭ ̎1͓̃ͬ̑̒ͣ̽ͯ̐ͅ9̺̰̺͙͖̲͍̄̑̎̍͆ͦ͒4͎̭͙̙̥̗ͨ̔̈́4͙͓̥̝̓̎̽͑

 

There are still gunshots. Someone screams. France can hear them. He struggles against his restraints. He struggles so much he starts bleeding. Pain rushes through him. More pain. Always in pain. He doesn’t know why he’s struggling. He doesn’t know where he is. The gunshots—is that what they are? They start up and stop and start up and

The door opens.

* * *

 

 _10. Mai 1944_  

Prussia can’t hear anything but a ringing noise.

When Tedus sees him, she screams. He would too if he was her. His left arm is mangled, half of his face is singed, and he’s dragging Spain’s dismembered body with him. He couldn’t—he couldn’t grab William’s.

There are more explosions behind him as members of the guerrilla force run over.

He can’t hold onto consciousness any longer.

* * *

 

 _10 Mayyu 1944_  

She’s actually never driven a car before. William was supposed to take over after they got away from the building, but.

William never came out of the building.

Now Tedus is being left to her own devices. Thankfully, she can follow the guerrilla force members’ car, but doing so doesn’t counteract the nervousness she feels from her first attempt at operating this metal death trap.

She wants to cry. She wants to bury her face into her dad’s chest and remember what her mother actually looks like. She wishes her dad were alive. She wishes she didn’t have to be a sex worker. Why did the war have to start? Why can’t she just keep going to school? Why can’t there be any sense of normalcy?

No. Instead, she’s a part of a resistance group, something Mr. and Mrs. Abdenour use to whisper about in hushed voices, something that was seen as so mythical that it couldn’t possibly exist.

The idea of immortal beings roaming the earth in the form of Nation Avatars is also something Tedus never even fathomed. Are they actually demons? Have they been dammed by God? Are they the work of Satan?

When Gilbert walked towards her, with part of his face singed so bad that it was unrecognizable, dragging only half of Antonio with him, it almost seemed like it.

Tedus wants to close her eyes and pray for all of this to be over, but such words seem empty at this point. If prayers worked, her dad would still be alive. William and Konrad would be too.

The car reeks. Tedus has a jacket wrapped around her face. The afternoon sun is blinding. She feels feverish.

Sometimes she’ll swivel her head around—just to look. She can’t help it, even if she nearly gagged the last time. Spain’s hips are reforming, and _bone_ is somehow growing, and just the sound—

Tedus turns up the dial on the radio. The car swerves, but she frantically steadies it.

She wanted to help people. She wanted this. She knows she did, and she feels good about what she’s doing.

But still.

She really wishes she could just be a normal sixteen-year-old girl.

Whatever that is.

* * *

  
 

l͉͎ͫͪ̎e̙͔ͩ͌͆ ̋1̗̫̯̝ͧ̑ͪ̅̈́1͓̞̺͍̫̑̐ͩͪͧ ͛m̝̞̯͗́ͭ͐̐̒͊ͩ̍ả͍̙̙̰͓̹̪̙ͨͪ̋́̿ȋ͕͍͙̙ͭ ̎1͓̃ͬ̑̒ͣ̽ͯ̐ͅ9̺̰̺͙͖̲͍̄̑̎̍͆ͦ͒4͎̭͙̙̥̗ͨ̔̈́4͙͓̥̝̓̎̽͑

 

 _what is that who is that why is the door open the presences no no no no_  

* * *

 

 _11 de mayo de 1944_  

France screams.

They open the door, and he immediately lets out such an ugly shriek that Spain stumbles backward.

Prussia runs forward, obstructing Spain’s view. Above him, he hears gunshots. They mostly took out all the people here with only two injuries so far, but—

Prussia turns on the lights.

Spain has to choke back a gag.

The—he knows it’s France, yet it’s not. Instead, it’s some malnourished, naked, bald person chained to a cement block, covered in wounds. His eyes are bugged out, bright red, and he’s thrashing and making such hideous noises.

The smell immobilizes Spain, and his legs that were blasted off cleanly yesterday suddenly feel stiff and awkward.

Prussia frantically signs for him to ‘take care’ of France; then starts dumping gasoline on everything. Spain feels something caught in his throat. The ‘everything’ is torture instruments and—fuck, and samples. Why are there limbs stacked in that closet? What—

He moves forward. France is still shrieking.

_“He doesn’t even recognize me anymore, Antonio.”_

Spain doesn’t know what he was expecting. He had no idea he had no idea he had

He doesn’t want to shoot France. He doesn’t want—he wants France’s eyes to show life in them. He wants him to joke around. He wants things to be normal. He wants Francis.

But Francis isn’t there.

Just France, digging a stake into Spain’s head with his presence.

Gunshots. It’s all Spain heard in his sleep last night. It’s all he’s hearing now.

He’s standing over the mutated thing, the not Francis.

He wants him to say one word. One sentence. Show any bit of recognition.

“Kill him,” Prussia says, cutting through Spain’s haze. His expression is laced with pain.

Spain closes his eyes and raises his gun.

France screams.

* * *

 

_11. Mai 1944_

Prussia feels numb. Nothing seems real. Thankfully, though, he’s not the one driving, Spain is. He hasn’t said anything since they left the compound; not that Prussia has either.

It’s around four in the morning. They’re outside past curfew, but it doesn’t matter since they’re finally away from the city.

It’s a freeing feeling.

Tedus is in the other car, so right now, it’s just Prussia and Spain.

Well, and France’s body too, lying across the back seat.

They put a tarp over him. It helps a little.

They haven’t had to shoot him again. His body seems to be cooperating, remaining in a dead, peaceful state.

Prussia stares at the window in a daze, glancing at the stars.

They did it.

They actually rescued him.

The radio, only crackling before, suddenly begins playing music. It’s in German. Spain starts humming along.

Prussia realizes he’s crying.

* * *

 

 _11 de mayo de 1944_  

Spain has his face buried into the back of Prussia’s hair.

“So if he’s ashes, how will he reform?” Tedus whispers.

The ashes are spread neatly across the coffin, and everything still smells smoky. William’s parents helped them with the cremation.

“Slowly something starts growing out of them,” Prussia murmurs. The vibrations fill Spain. “Like, first an organ or something, and then everything else grows around it.”

Tedus stares at the coffin. There are bags engrained under her eyes.

William’s mom, a woman in her late sixties, approaches them. Spain steps away from Prussia.

“We’re ready to take the coffins to the cemetery,” she says. Her voice is hushed too. Everyone is afraid to speak at a normal level.

Spain looks at the coffin next to France’s. The empty one. William’s.

Why did he run back?

_“We’re not humans. And the moment we blissfully forget that people die.”_

Prussia said he didn’t mean that.

Spain knows he’s right, though.

* * *

 

 _11._   _Mai 1944_

“William and Konrad were good friends of mine,” Mr. Do chokes out. “I can’t believe—I can’t believe that in such a short time, I’m giving another speech like this.”

Prussia feels guilt eating away at his heart.

Mr. Do clenches his handkerchief while Mrs. Do rests her hand on his back. “I’ve known William for eleven years. I had just immigrated to the country when we first met. My French was really bad, but when I stumbled into a café, he helped me buy something. And then—God, I still can’t fathom why—then he helped me get a job at his uncle’s library. We kept an on-and-off friendship for years after that as he did some government job. But even though he could be absent sometimes for moths, he—he still attended our wedding and was there for the birth of Thi Phuong. God, he was there for any celebration and always had gifts for our daughter….

“I always joked around with him and asked why he didn’t get his own wife, but he never gave me an answer. It was only until he got drunk once that he told me it was because of his job. So when he joined me at the library after the war broke out, I was excited for him! Despite everything, I thought that maybe he could find some happiness. But then he became dedicated to fighting against the Nazis, and I realized that happiness would never come until the war was over.

“So my wife and I decided to help. For him and to stop the awful things the Nazis were doing. We knew the risks. I didn’t want to believe it could come to this, but we…

“William’s the one who found Konrad. Konrad was going to commit suicide—that’s—that’s what William told me—after finding out his entire family was killed in an air raid. But William convinced him there were things to fight for, so Konrad dedicated the rest of his life to helping our resistance group.

“I still—it’s still hard for me to process that they’re both gone.” Mr. Do looks at William’s parents, his expression broken.

The mother dabs her eyes while the father has a stony expression.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

Tedus’s jaw wiggles as Aaron intensely studies the ground.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Prussia is too.

* * *

 

 _11 Mayyu 1944_  

“Are you leaving?”

Gilbert avoids eye contact, staring at the briefcase he brought with him. “Maybe.”

“Antonio is looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Why are you hiding in the barn?”

“Tedus,” Gilbert mumbles.

“You can’t just _leave_.” She hears her voice crack. “Not after everything. Not after these two months. We finally just rescued him. You—You can’t go back yet.”

“I’m the reason Konrad and William are dead.”

Tedus feels tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “No. It was those Nazis who came into the house and that Nazi who threw the bomb.”

“I came into all of your lives when I shouldn’t have. I’m a Nation. I—”

“No. You came into our lives because we wanted you to. And you rescued your friend, Gilbert. You saved him. It doesn’t matter if both of you are Nations. He was being tortured for something he didn’t deserve, and you saved him.”

They make eye contact.

“ _We_ saved him,” she chokes.

He gives a watery smile. “Then can I thank you now?”

Tedus starts crying.

_Please don’t go._

Gilbert pulls her into a hug.

_I’m going to miss you._

* * *

 

 _11 de mayo de 1944_  

He finds Prussia staring at his reflection in a pond behind the barn.

“Gilbert,” Spain chokes out, running over. “I’ve been—”

“Was this the right thing to do?” he asks, not looking up.

“Francis is no longer in pain,” Spain says quickly, not knowing what else to say, feeling nervousness wrack his body.

“…”

After some time, Prussia makes eye contact with him. His expression breaks. “Why couldn’t he have taken the documents?”

Spain finally cries.

_You’re going to leave me._

* * *

 

 _11. Mai 1944_  

“We have the rest of the day,” Prussia says when Spain calms down, avoiding eye contact.

“W-What?”

“What do you want to do? We could go fishing—”

Spain brings him into a choking embrace. 

* * *

 

_11 Mayyu 1944_

Tedus watches them fish in the backyard. She helps Mrs. Do and Mrs. Bourseiller prepare lunch and dinner. She aids Mr. Bourseiller fix an electrical problem in the barn. Gilbert and Antonio come back into the house around dinnertime, joking around. They start telling fun stories of the past, filled with adventure and mischief. It enthralls everyone. Maybe that’s what Gilbert’s always done. He walked into her life and enthralled her—pulled her away from the dull monotony she was suffering through. She was just existing ever since her dad died, not living.

So all of this—she finally feels alive again.

Yet here Gilbert is, hugging her, getting ready to leave like none of this ever happened.

Mr. Do is looking at Gilbert with worry as he climbs into the car they purchased with Antonio’s money. “Where are you going to go?”

Gilbert’s hair is almost completely white again. His eyebrows are still brown, so it looks a little silly. “East.”

“What about you, Antonio?” Mrs. Do whispers.

“I’ll take the train tomorrow,” he mumbles, his expression completely blank.

“I can come with you,” Aaron says. “I need to go back to Madrid anyway.”

It gets silent as Prussia starts up the engine.

Tedus wants to hug him again.

Instead, all he gives is a half-wave, then drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we’re almost done this AWH AU forever, and then I’ll never write another piece of fanfiction again
> 
> also if you're familiar with history and wonder why the date for d-day is off, it's because that was the original date it was planned for, and then they moved it, but the characters don't know that yet lmao


	12. I’m so sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotland uses some racist/homophobic language, so heads up.

_30 June 1944_

“There are substantial leads on where both of the Italian Nation Avatars are. British, American, and Canadian troops are working together to capture them.”

England looks up from his book, feeling his heart rate increase.

 _“_ Because of this new development, the Nations from the rest of the UK and a few from the Common Wealth will be arriving in a couple of days, so anticipate the new company.”

England’s expression twists.

The advisor turns around. “That’s all.”

America nudges him once the man is gone. “Maybe Italy and Romano can tell us something about France when we capture them.” He looks hopeful.

England’s mouth feels dry. “Yeah.”

America slumps further into the couch. “I’m not all that jazzed up about your brothers coming, though.”

“Seeing Matthew, Jett, and Jack will be nice.”

“What, and not Aarav?”

“He hates me.”

“True.”

England glances back at his book, suddenly feeling restless.

He really hopes they can capture Italy and Romano.

* * *

 

_2 July 1944_

England has barely slept the past two nights, but it’s fine. He’s a little delirious, but really, it’s fine.

He’s outside in the courtyard with the other three as they all do their own thing in silence.

The words in the book he has open blur away.

It’s not like he’s been having nightmares, rather, just the anticipation of finding out more information on France is keeping him up. And England knows he’s being too hopeful at this point, but maybe Italy and Romano have information on Hong Kong as well.

He rubs his face.

It’s just after lunchtime. The food was bland. Everything feels bland. This book is bland.

He glances up. America is next to him, reading some mystery novel. Russia, meanwhile, is reading—

England squints. It’s _Shi Gong'an_. That’s the book China _was_ going to give him once he finished it.

Now England feels irrationally pissed off. He notices China holding some Russian novel and nudges America in the ribs.

He looks at him. “Yeah?”

“Switch books with me.”

“What? Why?”

“Mine sucks.”

“Gee, then you’re really making me want to read it.”

England isn’t sure what emotion he’s feeling right now—jealousy? Jealousy that the other two switched books? He feels cagey. America grabs the novel from him and scans the back cover. “This doesn’t seem too bad.”

“Then switch with me.”

“I mean, if you want. But mine’s a Western, and I know you’re not too fond of them, so…”

England’s face scrunches up just as the door to the courtyard slams open.

It’s his advisor, who looks exceptionally jittery. “They have the Italians.”

Everything seems to still.

“And?” China asks in English.

“They’re being asked questions.” He’s looking at them with a weird expression. He then opens his mouth like he wants to say something but shuts the door and bolts away after someone calls his name.

“The fuck is his problem?” Russia mutters after he’s gone.

England has a weird feeling in his stomach.

* * *

 

It’s nighttime, and he’s pacing in his room.

He tried tracking down one of his advisors to get more information about Romano and Italy, but ever since the afternoon, they’ve all been acting really weird towards him. England would almost say they’re avoiding him, but considering it’s their job to be nosy bastards, all of them are still slinking around.

God, he was even so desperate that he went to America’s advisor, who, for whatever goddamn reason, is always with Russia’s. Neither knew anything. In fact, the American man acted like a cunt while the Russian basically hid behind his back.

England didn’t bother asking the Chinese Nation Advisors.

He forces himself to stop pacing and stumbles towards his desk, only to see his calendar.

It’s the second of July.

_fuckfuckfuckfuck_

The United States of America not being a British Colony anymore has virtually no effect on Great Britain now. Nearly 200 years have passed. England’s body, on the other hand, has not caught up with this memo, and every Fourth of July, it revolts against him. That, and honestly just the thought of what the holiday represents makes him feel bitter. Usually, he spends it alone, locked in his room, hacking up blood into a bin, and then drinking himself into oblivion later in the night.

It’s quite hard to entertain that thought when America is here, though.

He—a present. He should get a present. Yeah. That will make up for him looking miserable.

He then remembers something and stifles a groan.

Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland are supposed to arrive any day now. Dear God, if they come on the fourth—no. No, they won’t. Actually, it will be a good day. Yes. That’s when his advisors will let him know the information about Romano and Italy. That’s when he’ll find out that France really is just Hitler’s maid, and that Hong Kong is—maybe he’s Hirohito’s maid too? Yeah.

England has no idea what present to get America.

* * *

 

_3 July 1944_

Their days have been nothing but a dull monotony, so because of that, their schedules are easily predictable.

Like America’s daily nap.

After he passes out in his room, England awkwardly walks into the lounge where Russia and China are seated. China is drawing. Russia, meanwhile, has a book open in front of him, though he’s staring at China with a slacked jaw instead.

Now England feels a weird emotion he can’t place. He clears his throat. China looks up while Russia nearly slams his head against the table.

China glances at England, then back to Russia. “You okay?”

His face is flushed. “Y-Yeah. Sorry.”

China looks at England again. “What?”

“Ineedyoutwotogooutwithme.”

Russia’s face is returning to a normal colour. “Excuse me?”

England starts pacing. “I can’t—I’m not allowed to leave the palace by myself because for whatever reason my advisors are being extra cautious today? I’m allowed to go if one of you comes with me, though.”

China scrunches up his eyebrows. “Go where?”

“Tomorrow is the fourth.”

The date doesn’t register with either of them. “So?” Russia asks.

“It’s America’s birthday.”

Silence.

“I want to buy him a present.” England’s hands feel sweaty. “So I need one of you to come shopping with me.”

Neither of them looks thrilled at this notion.

“Please,” England adds on.

There’s a long pause.

“We can both come,” China eventually says.

“We can?” Russia grumbles, clearly annoyed.

England glares at him. “What, like you’re doing anything better?”

Russia gives him a look, and England opens his mouth again, but China cuts him off. “A walk would be nice, Ivan.”

He nervously rubs the back of his neck and avoids eye contact. “Fine.”

None of them move.

“Do you want to leave now?” China asks. “Because you’ll have to let me change into Western clothes.”

He’s wearing a traditional Chinese outfit. England is also not really dressed to go out, wearing his pyjamas and all, and Russia is in something frumpy.

“We should all change,” England mumbles.

Russia grumbles something as he and China stand up.

* * *

 

England wonders if this is what it was like when just Russia went out with him and America.

Except, no, this is probably worse because the only word to possibly describe how he and China are acting is that they’re flirting. Or at least, China is flirting with Russia and making him so flustered that England isn’t sure what to do with himself.

When they finally make it to the nearest shopping district, he feels a rush of relief.

China acknowledges he exists again. “What present are you getting Alfred?” He’s speaking in English since they’re out in public. He doesn’t seem to give a shit about his accent.

“I have no idea.”

China blankly stares at him while Russia looks annoyed. “Well, what does he like?” His English accent is also terrible.

England prides himself on knowing Alfred F. Jones pretty well, but suddenly all that information seems to have been thrown into the void. “Uh.”

“Get him something patriotic?” China suggests.

“Great. Point me to the nearest store selling American merchandise here in London, and I’ll head there immediately.”

“I’m sure those American soldiers would sell something to you,” Russia mutters.

There’s a huge group of them being obnoxious outside of a café.

England rubs his face. “Well, that’s my Plan B, then.”

They continue walking until Russia stops. “What about something from here?”

It’s a bookstore.

All three of them wander inside, and England suddenly feels overwhelmed. Russia and China disappear while he idly browses, having no idea what to get America, having no idea what says, ‘hey even though I look like shit today, really—no hard feelings.’

It’s when he ends up in the history section, glancing at a book on Canada, that he wonders if he should get him anything for his birthday, which was two days ago. He rubs his face. They haven’t exactly celebrated it together in the years past, so…

He then doesn’t know what makes him think of it—the East Asian culture book over there? But he remembers Hong Kong’s unopened Christmas present and nearly bolts out of the section.

He almost runs straight into Russia.

Both are startled. Russia recovers first. “Did you find anything?”

Hearing him speak this much English is starting to get really weird. “No.”

“Yao and I can help if you give us something to look for.”

“There’s a Western section,” China says, coming up behind Russia. “As in, cowboys and stuff.”

“Where?”

England ends up picking one of those novels. He then sees Russia glancing at an astronomy book and grabs that as well. At the checkout, there are little trinkets.

So, of course, he can’t help but get a toy soldier too.

* * *

 

“Where the hell were you three?” America demands angrily as a greeting.

England hides the shopping bag behind his back. China and Russia, surprisingly, deflect for him. “I needed a new book,” China lies smoothly.

America scrunches up his eyebrows.

“You were sleeping,” England says quickly. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He edges away.

Thankfully, Russia asks America a weird question that allows him to escape to his room.

* * *

 

It’s around 11 PM, and as usual, England’s avoiding sleep.

The anticipation of tomorrow also isn’t helping.

It’s just him and America in the lounge. There was an odd moment earlier when China invited Russia somewhere, and he hastily declined and said he was going to bed, but now that China has left after sitting there with a frown on his face for ten minutes, the atmosphere is back to normal.

The radio is playing some music that America’s humming along to. He’s doing a crossword puzzle. England, meanwhile, has a novel and his knitting stuff out, but he doesn’t feel like touching either of them.

The closer he sees the clock get to midnight, the more and more anxious he feels.

After a while, he fidgets. “I have to go to bed now.”

America looks up. “Oh. Okay.” He reaches for the radio and turns it off. “I should probably go to bed at a normal time too.”

He gathers his stuff together. England does so as well, feeling a lump in his throat.

He builds up a resolve once America stands up. “Alfred.”

America blinks. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry if I look like a mess tomorrow.” He practically blurts that out.

America frowns. “Uh…okay? Why would you—” He pauses. “What’s today’s date?”

“Really. I’m—happy early birthday.”

America’s expression shutters. “That’s what date it is.”

England can feel a headache coming on. “We can do something fun tomorrow. I told the cooks to make a cake. Um, that was supposed to be a surprise, but—”

America pulls him into a hug.

England breathes in his smell, letting his body slump.

“Thank you, Arthur,” America whispers into the side of his neck after some time.

He suddenly feels hot. “No need to thank me.”

America responds by hugging him tighter.

England finds himself never wanting to leave. Being with America, with Alfred, is the only time he ever feels truly loved.

_France was crying. “Arthur.”_

_Guards tightened their grip on Hong Kong’s arms. He started panicking. “Arthur!”_

England abruptly feels near tears.

* * *

 

_4 July 1944_

His eyes peel open at 7 AM.

On every July 3rd, he convinces himself that he’ll be fine the next day. Christ, when he goes to sleep, he’s normal.

But after collapsing into bed last night, he could already feel his body beginning to ache.

His head is pounding. He feels nauseous and knows his eyes are crusty.

He forces himself to stand up and stumble to the bathroom, where he promptly hacks up a lung. When he finally gets his bearings, he stares at himself in the mirror.

God, he really looks like shit.

* * *

 

England stumbles to the lounge, carrying America’s present with him. He threw all of the items into one box. He’s pretty proud of his wrapping job too—that bow took a long time to get perfect, dammit.

Russia and China are eating breakfast, and they both do a double take when he staggers into the room.

Russia scrunches up his eyebrows. “Holy shit, I thought others were making up how much of a mess you turn into.”

England forces back a cough. “Nope.” He wants to crawl back into bed. Shit, he hates letting other Nations see him like this.

The birthday cake is on the table, and he places the present next to it; then collapses onto the couch and leans his head back, waiting for America to wake up. Everything begins to feel hazy after a while.

That’s why he thinks he’s being delusional when he hears Scotland’s voice.

He realizes, though, that this is reality when he sees both Russia and China tense up.

Scotland crashes through the door. “HOW’S THE BIRTHDAY BOY?”

“He’s not up yet.”

“You look like a bloody mess,” Wales says.

England gives him the V sign as he and Scotland come over to pester him. Northern Ireland slinks to the corner.

“You made him a cake?” Scotland asks, sounding like that’s the most hilarious thing in the world.

“It’s his birthday,” England grumbles. “And _I_ didn’t make it; the cooks did.”

“You going drinking tonight?” Wales asks.

England is banned from going out to bars after he stumbled in drunk that one afternoon. Not that he’s going to tell them that. “No.”

Scotland shoves him. It’s almost playful. “Yer going drinking because I know Wales and I sure as hell need to.”

Wales suddenly gets a serious expression on his face. “Did they tell you any more information about Italy and Romano?”

He shakes his head, feeling nauseous. “Just that they captured them and are asking them questions.”

“I heard my advisor saying something about how Romano gave them coordinates in France.”

England’s heart rate speeds up. “What?”

Wales never answers because America picks that moment to enter.

He almost does a 180 after seeing Scotland and Wales. Scotland grabs him before he can leave.

“It’s the birthday boy!”

“Why the hell are you here?”

“Ouch. Don’t you want to say hi to uncle Alistair?”

“‘Uncle’ Alistair?”

“It’s been about a month. I’m sure you’ve been missing me every day.”

America tries to worm out of his grasp. “Uh-huh.”

“Because—”

England vomits blood.

Wales starts yelling not to throw up near him while Scotland breaks out into laughter.

China politely stands up. “I’ll go get someone to clean this up.”

He leaves. Russia stares at the door; then hastily follows.

America is fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket when Scotland leers. “Glad to see that Russian Pig is still following the Chink around like a lost puppy.”

Wales ignores the casual racism while England and America freeze. “Why the hell do you still get sick?”

“I don’t know,” England chokes out. His mouth tastes vile. He takes America’s handkerchief and wipes his lips.

China eventually walks back into the room with Russia and a maid who looks like she’s going to piss herself.

England knows the day is only starting.

* * *

 

At lunchtime, he makes some excuse to yank America out of the room so he can open his present in peace.

They end up by the tennis court. The hole has haphazardly been repaired.

England feels extremely nauseous when they sit down on the bleachers. He thrusts the present at America. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

“Sorry—” England feels a bead of sweat roll down his back. “Sorry the other two have to be here.”

America takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Wales isn’t bad when he’s not with Scotland.”

“Sorry _he’s_ here, then.”

America tugs at the wrapping paper. “Dude, did you wrap this? The bow is perfect.”

England feels a stupid amount of satisfaction. “Maybe.”

America beams, then tears open the paper. He blinks when he opens the box.

England feels nervous. “Books. You know. You like books,” he mumbles.

America takes out the toy soldier.

Ah. Now, England’s face is beet red. “They had them there,” he offers as an explanation. “At the store.”

America doesn’t take his eyes off of it. “I still have the ones you made for me.”

England feels feverish, not necessarily in a bad way.

“Thank you,” America murmurs, hugging him.

“Happy Birthday.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“…”

“It’s been almost 200 years now. It’s fine, I swear.”

America chuckles into his neck. “Then why are you so sick?”

“I’d love an answer to that too.”

America pulls away.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever celebrated this day with you,” he then mumbles.

England squeezes his hand and allows himself to think that everything is okay.

Just for a little while.

* * *

 

He’s actually beginning to feel a little better after dinnertime.

He’s in the lounge, sitting at the table with Russia and China while fondly watching America try to chat with Northern Ireland. He doesn’t know where Scotland and Wales have gone.

China is making origami that Russia’s staring at. “How?”

“You fold the paper.”

England sees Russia’s face flush. “If it was that easy, then I could do it.”

China takes out a new piece of paper. “Here. Grab this.”

Russia does so as England rubs his eyes. They don’t feel too sunken in anymore. “You don’t seem like the artistic type.”

“Fuck you,” Russia mutters while China points to an area to fold. “I can knit. That’s artistic.”

Right. England forgot they had that in common.

“You’re already folding it in the wrong direction,” China murmurs.

Russia’s cheeks flush. “Well it’s—”

China places his hand on top of his. England sees Russia’s body lock up. “Here, let me show you.”

Scotland and Wales pick that moment to enter, Scotland’s arms full of alcohol. He immediately looks at Russia and China’s position and leers. Russia tears his hands away from China as if he’s been electrocuted. China’s expression shutters.

Wales pretends like nothing just happened. “They didn’t touch our alcohol stash.”

“We’re not drinking,” America says from across the room. Northern Ireland fidgets.

“It’s your birthday. Live a little,” Scotland says, turning away from the table. “It’s not like you’re in prohibition anymore.”

America shoots a look to England.

His head begins to hurt again. “We’re not drinking.”

Scotland waves his hand. “Yeah. Alright.”

* * *

 

England really didn’t mean to drink. It just happened. It helped his headache. He’s not sure what he feels feverish from anymore. Shit, actually, he’s not sure where he is.

He stumbles out of the bathroom.

Oh. That’s where.

The lounge. He should go back to the lounge.

He passes by his Nation Advisor. Did he just look at him in fear? No. It must be the alcohol.

England needs water.

He stumbles back into the room. Scotland is passed out and stripped down to his underwear while Wales is completely pissed. It’s when he’s like that that he’s the nicest, though. He’s playing some board game with Northern Ireland.

America…Alfred…

Where—where is he?

England feels sweaty. Russia and China are gone too.

He stumbles out and walks, then freezes when he passes by a study room.

China is asleep on the couch in there, and Russia is caressing his face.

They make eye contact.

Russia’s eyes are glazed over, but he seems to sober up and retracts his hand as if it was burned. England’s stomach is doing that weird thing again, so he leaves to continue his quest to find Americ—

Russia yanks his shoulder.

“You didn’t see anything,” he hisses.

“Then be more discrete about it,” England spits, having no filter.

Russia stutters.

“You’re obvious,” England slurs. He goes to move—

“You’re obvious with your crush on America.”

England’s head whips around. “My crush on— _what_?” There are now black specs in the corners of his vision.

Russia looks slightly deranged. “You’re just as bad. I’m not—you’re just as bad. It’s not only me. Not only—”

England and Russia notice someone watching them at the same time.

It’s one of England’s advisors. He has…a bloody lot of them since he represents the UK. The man’s eyes are bugging out of his skull.

“The fuck do you want?” Russia sneers in English.

The man bolts.

England forgets why he’s standing here and stumbles away. Russia doesn’t follow him.

_I just…like America ‘cause he’s…_

_He won’t leave me. Not again. I can keep him here. I couldn’t—I couldn’t keep Francis or Leon, but—_

“You’re wasted.”

“Alfred!”

“You said you wouldn’t drink.”

England buries his face into his chest. “ ‘m not drunk.”

“You tell yourself that.”

“ ‘m not!”

America sighs.

* * *

 

_5 July 1944_

He wakes up with a headache and gets angry that he has one because he’s supposed to be feeling better.

He then realizes he’s hung over.

In his drunkenness and sick delirium, he has no memory of last night.

It’s nice, in a way.

* * *

 

_7 July 1944_

The last two days were filled with a dull monotony, and so far, today is no exception.

England has been trying to corner any of the advisors here to ask them about Italy and Romano, and why Romano gave them random coordinates in the middle of France, but they’ve all been incessantly avoiding him.

He has no idea when Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and India are arriving. It should be any day now. And he would ask his advisors about that if he fucking _could_.

He rubs his face. He’s exhausted and still has gotten little to no sleep. Last night’s vague nightmare about France also didn’t help.

It’s currently breakfast time. Surprisingly, everyone is being civil right now as they dully consume the tasteless food they’ve been given.

England stares at the silverware in front of him until it blurs away. He has nothing planned for today. Wales mentioned maybe they could play cricket, but America’s face wrinkled in disgust at the notion.

_“What, do you want to play tennis instead?” England asked._

_America flushed. “No.”_

He looks off to the side, blinking when he hears approaching voices.

Yelling abruptly starts.

The door slams open, and England’s main advisor makes a beeline for him, his face almost purple with rage.

“DID YOU HELP PRUSSIA?”

England’s brain short-circuits. “What?” He hasn’t even seen Prussia since the Berlin Olympics.

“DON’T LIE. YOU PUT UP SUCH A FIGHT IN TOURS—”

The advisor is swarmed upon by England’s other officials. England feels shell-shocked, and no one at the table moves while the others scream at each other.

“The hell are all of you going on about?” Scotland interrupts.

The main advisor jabs his finger at England. “DID YOU HELP HIM?”

His head starts to hurt. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Help who?” Scotland demands at the same time. “That Nazi fuck?”

England’s advisor opens his mouth to scream again, but Canada’s, who’s been here for about a week and a half, cuts him off. “Edmund, you’re not making this situation any better.”

“I could be severely punished if this _thing_ actually helped him.”

England’s eyebrows are pinched. “I really—I have no idea what you’re talking about.” For the first time, he notices some guards brandishing guns in the background.

“Then let me explain calmly,” Canada’s advisor says, his words slow and deliberate. “After being captured, the South Italian Nation Avatar gave seemingly random coordinates in Northern France and claimed that’s where the French Nation Avatar’s body was.”

Everything seems to still.

“Thankfully, that area had already been liberated. He was buried in a coffin and has been retrieved.”

England’s ears start ringing. He suddenly feels choked. “Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Why was he—”

“According to the Italian Nation Avatars, the ‘lesser’ Nations captured by the Axis Powers have been test-subjects for various experiments since the beginning of the war.”

There are black spots in England’s vision. He almost thinks he heard wrong.

“No.” Russia is the one who speaks first. He looks in denial. “They would be in Berlin with Hitler. They’d be his—”

“Considering the South Italian Nation Avatar wasn’t lying about the coordinates, we’re taking his word very seriously.”

“Why was France buried?” England explodes. “Who the hell would do that?”

That’s where the Nation Advisor’s expression shutters. “According to the South Italian Nation Avatar, the Spanish one sent him a telegraph detailing this information, which he was able to receive since the two had third-party contacts.”

England’s head is pounding.

“In the telegraph, the Spanish Nation Avatar explained that the Prussian organized an escape plan for the French one.”

_“Gilbert was right.”_

“Apparently, the French Nation Avatar was being kept in Paris. The Prussian one was there too to be re-educated. But eventually, the Prussian snapped and rebelled against his nature.”

_Against his—_

_“Gilbert was right.”_

_No._

The walls feel like they’re closing in on England.

“What kind of experiments?” America chokes out. Russia still looks in disbelief while China’s eyebrows are getting more and more pinched together.

“It varies, apparently. In Japan, for instance, they—”

Something in England’s head snaps. “They’re doing it in Japan?”

“Yes. According to the North Italian Nation Avatar, the Japanese are brutal—”

England realizes he’s hyperventilating. China has lost control of his presence. Russia looks in utter disbelief. America is freaking out and trying to calm England down. Northern Ireland is near tears. Scotland just seems confused. Wales is the only one remaining rational.

“Clearly none of us knew about this so you can kindly stop pointing your fucking guns at our heads.”

* * *

 

He feels numb.

 _“The French Nation Avatar is coming tomorrow_. _”_

Responsible.

_“The Italian ones gave the approximate locations of where some of the others are being held.”_

Useless.

_“The Asian Nations are being held in Kyoto, apparently. There’s nothing we can do for them.”_

England wants to cry. His advisors had pulled him to the side and grilled him; then gave information when they realized how utterly lost he is in all of this.

_“The South Italian Nation Avatar said that Prussia, Spain, and France set up a way to communicate with each other during the Berlin Olympics. Were you aware of this?”_

No, he wasn’t, and now France and Hong Kong have been tortured.

They gave him a description of France that sounds too horrific to be true.

But this is reality.

He’s been screwing around Buckingham Palace for the past month while those two have been suffering.

England grips the side of his head. He’s back in the lounge, the only one there so far besides his advisors hovering against the wall. The rest are getting private explanations elsewhere from their officials.

He still can’t comprehend what Prussia and Spain did, but mostly Prussia since he’s the main organizer of all of this. What did he tell France during the Olympics? Because apparently, he was right. He was fucking _right_.

A wave of anger passes over him, only to be dulled by numbness. England doesn’t know what to do, and it’s not like he can do anything either. France has already been tortured, has already been rescued.

And he did nothing.

Prussia helped, though. England has been useless, but somehow Prussia was able to muster up the courage and resist his own government. Spain also helped, but he wasn’t directly defying anyone.

England’s vision blurs. Prussia has always been marked as the rebellious one—the one who should have died but has persisted anyway; the one who’s, again and again, proved his humanity.

And England is jealous. Despite the fallout from this, he’s jealous. He wishes Arthur Kirkland could have done something just as Gilbert Beilschmidt did, but he hasn’t.

_“The Prussian Nation Avatar snapped and rebelled against his nature.”_

England clenches his jaw.

Could he ever rebel against his government? God, what would even happen if he did?

America sits down next to him.

His face is an ashen colour, and England forces himself to hold back tears. He and America don’t speak to each other as all of their Nation Advisors continue to hover in the background.

China comes in next. Russia after.

“At least he’s been rescued,” America whispers after a while.

England really has to hold back tears.

* * *

 

England doesn’t know why the explanation takes extra long with Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. But when they show up again an hour later—an hour after just sitting in silence in this stupid room since they aren’t allowed to go anywhere else right now—the mood takes an even bigger nosedive.

Scotland won’t shut up. It’s his way of distressing, and clearly, this entire situation is rattling him because he keeps spewing shit out.

Normally, Wales is excellent at dealing with him when he gets into this type of mood, but even Wales is looking more and more fed up. Northern Ireland is the one mostly engaging with him now.

England is numb.

Their advisors are still hovering against the wall. Every now and then, the American and Russian one will say something to each other, but that’s it. For the most part, all the others are stiff and are wearing blank expressions.

Russia snaps. “God, shut up!”

Now he’s just riled up Scotland even more. “Man, yer in my fucking homeland right now so you do not get to order me around.”

There’s a vein visible on Russia’s forehead. “I don’t give a damn!”

Scotland sneers and nods his head to China, who Russia is sitting next to and currently has his leg pressed against. “Sorry, but I’m not listening to anything the faggot who’s in love with the Chink has to say—”

Russia abruptly stands up, his eyes turning bright red. England can see all the advisors in the background completely tense up.

A look of fleeting terror crosses Scotland’s face.

“Ivan,” China says, his voice an octave higher than usual. “It’s okay. Let it go.”

The issue with Scotland is that when he’s scared, he also runs his mouth. “If you’re that insecure about being in love with the Chink, then you really must be a fag—”

Russia lunges for him.

He gets him in a chokehold, and Scotland starts clawing at his hands and gasping for air. Northern Ireland screams. The Nation Advisors in the back freak out. China frantically projects his presence when Scotland’s face turns blue, but he—

His presence cuts out.

Russia releases his neck, and Scotland’s body drops to the ground like a sack of flour.

Wales reacts first.

He jerks himself forward and grabs Scotland’s body. Northern Ireland makes a squeaking noise, following him as he thrusts open the door and drags Scotland down the hallway.

England feels himself moving. He chases after them, hearing the Nation Advisors scramble into the hallway behind him.

His ears are ringing when he catches up to Wales. They’re down at the corner of some hallway.

Wales looks utterly frazzled. All he’s doing is cursing out Scotland in Welsh. “This fucking idiot needs to learn when to shut his goddamn mouth, and—”

“D-Dylan.”

“I know he’s freaked out from all of this, and I know we just got an hour-long lecture about how that since we’re ‘lesser’ Nations like Prussia and have even more of an excuse to ‘rebel,’ they’d be breathing down our fucking backs, but shit—”

“What?” England interrupts, his head spinning.

“They don’t trust us,” Northern Ireland says, his voice shaking.

Before he can respond, someone else speaks.

“Um.”

Canada.

England’s head jerks up. He, Australia, New Zealand, and India have just come around the corner.

All of them look at Scotland in confusion. Before any of them can ask questions, though, America powerwalks over.

“A-Alfred?” England asks.

He looks very uncomfortable. “Russia—Russia nearly started crying.”

“The fuck is going on?” Australia asks. “Why is Scotland dead?”

“Do you know about what happened to France?” Wales snaps.

“The fuck does that have to do with Scotland being dead?”

“He got stressed out about it and started rambling, then hurled slurs at Russia and China,” England gets out. “Russia snapped.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Canada steps over Scotland’s body. “How are you doing, Arthur?” There are bags under his eyes.

England feels a rush of tears again. He holds them back. “Fine.”

“At least Francis has been found.”

He’s ready for this conversation to be over.

“They’re bringing him here tomorrow,” America says for him. “Apparently.”

Canada takes off his glasses and rubs his face just as Scotland jerks back to life.

“What the fuck?” are the first words he says.

Wales loses it and starts berating him in Welsh. “Yeah, real goddamn smart of you. ‘Lets mock Russia.’ As if you don’t know how much of a monster that guy can turn into.”

Scotland looks dazed. “Why the hell are like ten people around me?”

“We had the unfortunate pleasure of arriving now,” India says.

Scotland opens his mouth, but Wales cuts him off. “Do not. Don’t even say anything.”

“Jesus, Dylan.”

“We’ve already been told officials are going to breathe down our backs for the next couple of years, and you really, _really_ don’t need to make that situation worse right now.”

Scotland sits up. His expression is pissed, which is surprising since he usually doesn’t get angry at Wales. “Oh, fling all the blame on me? I’ve been an obedient little fuck for the British government ever since the union. It’s the Nazi’s—”

“I KNOW IT’S PRUSSIA’S FAULT.”

England’s stomach hurts.

_But he saved Francis._

_How is it his fault?_

_How is it his fault when he actually did something? How can our government hate him?_

_He helped the Allies._

He makes eye contact with Canada, who shoots him a pained look.

_Would you have helped Francis?_

_Why couldn’t I?_

_Why are we being punished for Prussia’s good deeds?_

England closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was in DFU, so yay, finally got to write that up + include what Scotland was actually saying
> 
> Also tried to humanize Scotland’s actions. Doesn’t excuse what he said, but racist homophobes are people too, unfortunately (and can learn from their mistakes. Maybe Scotland gets better…eventually)
> 
> if you’re from Scotland, no qualms to your country. Alistair the person is just like this. I think I have dialed him back since the first draft of this fic, but I established his personality two years ago in AWH and have to stick to it
> 
> o/


	13. Злые языки страшнее пистолета

_7 июль 1944 года_

_（_ _7 July 1944_ _）_

“Sorry, but I’m not listening to anything the faggot who’s in love with the Chink—”

Russia doesn’t hear the rest.

He knows how immoral his feelings are. He can deal with that.

But calling China slurs is out of the fucking question.

All he sees is red, just like when Lithuania insulted his sisters. His senses dull, and black spots form in his vision, and blood is pounding in his ears—

Scotland’s presence abruptly fades.

Russia blinks, releasing his neck.

He barely has time to process anything before someone grabs Scotland’s body and drags him away. The Nation Advisors, meanwhile, bolt like Russia is going after them next.

He looks at his hands. They’re shaking.

_Monster Monster Monster Monster_

“Ivan.”

Russia’s eyes snap in China’s direction, realizing he’s near tears. He quickly ducks his head.

_Monster Monster Monster Monster_

China places his hand on Russia’s back. “Let’s get out of here, okay?” His voice is soft. “We can go to my room.”

Russia doesn’t resist as he guides him away. He’s too dazed to do anything, too disgusted by his own lack of self-control.

_“You let your emotions get the best of you. You are very emotional.”_

It all feels too overwhelming. With the news about _everything_ that’s been going on, he’s losing his grip.

_Monster Monster Monster Monster_

Ukraine’s letter just seems more _threatening_ now too, and, fuck, if they end up like—

China opens the door to his bedroom, leading Russia inside and onto the bed.

“Ivan,” he says after a few moments.

There’s a sob stuck in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“What? Don’t—”

“I’m sorry he said those things to you. I—I—”

China’s eyebrows are pinched together. “You’re…this upset over that?”

He’s upset that people would view China as anything but wonderful and kind and beautiful, and he’s upset that his feelings are this disgusting, and he’s angry that Scotland mocked him and mocked China, and baffled over what’s been happening to the Axis Nations, and frightened. For himself. For his sisters. For China.

He doesn’t know how to handle any of it.

China touches his arm, still looking confused.

“I’m so sorry.” Russia’s voice cracks.

“What are you apologizing for?”

He shakes his head. “For—For all of this.”

China leans over and embraces him.

Russia stiffens and arches his back, trying to push away. He can’t take advantage of him. He doesn’t deserve this. He— “Yao.”

China exerts his strength and locks his arms together. “Let me hold you.”

“You don’t have to—you don’t have to humor me.”

_Monster Monster Monster Monster_

“I’m not humoring you, Ivan.”

A shudder rocks through his body. Shaking, he rests his hands on China’s back and buries his face into his hair. The smell is intoxicating. His presence is addictive. The warmth of his body is something Russia didn’t know he was desperately craving.

 _Just for now_ , he tells himself, _I’ll allow myself to indulge._

China rubs his back.

_Just for now. Nothing will come out of it. I’ll work on resolving my feelings. For his sake. For mine. For my sisters. For—_

China lets out a sigh. “I didn’t realize how touch-starved I was…”

Russia grabs onto his shirt, his thoughts grinding to a halt.

Moments pass.

“We’ll forget about this as soon as I let go. That’s what you want, right?” China eventually whispers, his voice strange.

That is not what Russia wants, but he can’t say that.

All he chokes out is, “It’s easier if—we’re Nations.”

“I know we’re Nations, Ivan.”

Russia can’t respond.

“Prussia knew that too, but he helped France, apparently.”

Apprehension and confusion fill Russia’s head. He knew Prussia was bold and clung onto his humanity. Everyone knew the asshole was like that.

But Russia never thought he would rebel.

Shit, he can’t even fathom doing such a thing. Even if—he doesn’t know what he’d do if his sisters—

“I can’t imagine what those Nations have been going through,” China suddenly whispers, his voice wavering. “Kiku and Yong-Soo, shit, Lien and An—Anta—”

Russia jerks back when he realizes China is crying.

He quickly wipes his eyes and ducks his head. “And here I am, in London, away from all of _that_ , doing nothing. Being called is slur is minuscule compared to what they’ve—”

“No,” Russia snaps. He feels like a loose cannon. “Yao, you never deserve to be called anything derogatory.”

China blinks; then buries his face into his hands. “God, what the hell are you doing to me, Ivan?”

Russia swallows.

“Don’t you care about what he called you?”

He feels a wave of ice run through him. “I—it doesn’t matter.”

“What if I care?”

“You don’t have to. It’s fine.”

“That’s unfair, then. You’re allowed to care, but I’m not?”

Russia forces himself to scoot away. China’s eyebrows are pinched together.

Silence washes over them.

_This month together has been messing with my head. Once we’re apart, I’ll go back to normal. Everything will. This weird tension between us will disappear._

_Ithastoithastoithasto…_

“Can we be friends?” China eventually asks.

Russia’s brain short circuits. “Yes?” Were they not already friends? Were they not as close as he thought? Was he imagining everything? For this entire month, did he overstep—

China touches his arm. “I don’t know why you care so much about Wang Yao.”

“Because you deserve it,” is what leaves Russia’s mouth before he can even stop himself. _You deserve the world. You deserve so much. You…_

China blinks; then offers a sad smile. His eyes are tinged pink. “You’re really kind; you know that?”

Russia feels like he’s about to cry again.

China drops his hand. “We can make it through the rest of this, okay? We’ll do it together.”

They make eye contact.

“As friends.”

“Friends,” Russia echoes.

China scoots closer to him so that their legs get pressed together. “You can initiate physical contact with me, Ivan. Don’t focus on what Scotland said. It doesn’t mean anything, okay? It doesn’t have to.”

Russia releases a shaky breath. “B-But.”

“What?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, afraid of what he’ll say if he keeps talking.

China rests his hand next to his.

It takes everything in Russia’s willpower not to grab it.

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

  

Somehow, nearly a year passes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

_21 aпрель 1945 года_

_（_ _21 April 1945_ _）_

Isolation.

That’s all he’s known for weeks now.

They saw France. They saw Romano and Italy. They saw where Nations were being tortured.

And then their governments ripped them away from each other as if the month in London never existed.

No one knows why Prussia went back to Germany. They can’t contact him. They can’t contact Spain. It’s an enigma. He went back after doing something no Nation has done. And despite him ‘returning to his Nature,’ now everyone is terrified of Nations.

The prestige of them is declining. It’s evident everywhere. It’s evident in the Soviet Union, and Russia knows because he isn’t allowed to see his sisters. He asked. He was close to begging. But all his officials questioned was why he would want to see those ‘ _things’_ who represented lesser people.

Russia feels like he’s going insane.

The war is almost over, though. The Berlin Invasion is underway, and the Soviet Union has done negotiations with the US to enter the war on Japan.

But it does little to reassure Russia.

Instead, all of this feels like it’s the start of something new; of something more terrifying.

So right now, all he can do is act like the good pawn piece that he is. It doesn’t matter if he achingly misses China or if he’s terrified for his sisters’ future. Ivan Braginski doesn’t matter. For his own sanity, he can’t let him.

Currently, he’s being sent to Berlin. They still can’t find Prussia, Austria, or Germany. They’re the only three Nations left unaccounted for. And if they find them, then they can find Hitler.

Russia will track them down like the obedient piece of shit that he is. The dog. The war machine. Nothing more. That’s what they’re telling him, so it must be true.

…

He’s never felt more alone in his life.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Злые языки страшнее пистолета = evil tongues are worse than a pistol
> 
> commission by: penginius.tumblr.com


	14. 悪因悪果

_1945_ _年_ _8_ _月_ _6_ _日_

8:00 AM.

Aida nudges him, and Japan opens his eyes, feeling the crust break around them. His mouth tastes disgusting and knows his hair is a mess.

“What?” His voice cracks. “Do you want an update? I can’t see any planes.”

Aida shakes her head. “It’s not about an update. You’re to attend a meeting.”

That’s the absolute last thing he wants to do. “Why?”

“Hirohito wishes for your presence.”

Japan makes an open face of disgust as Aida gives him a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry. Go wash up, and then I’ll help dress you.”

He stumbles into a standing position, a dull pain radiating throughout his body. Anymore, he doesn’t know what it’s like to live without it. Every step hurts. Every breath takes effort. Days feel endless and dull.

Pointless.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror. The thing that looks back at him has lost weight, is in desperate need of a haircut, has circles engraved under their eyes.

Looks pathetic.

Japan brushes his teeth. He spits out blood; he can’t figure out from what even if he wanted to; then relieves himself. The urine is dark. He haphazardly combs his hair. It’s dull and oily.

He touches his face, prodding the almost translucent skin, imagining it turning to dust and finally setting himself free.

But instead, he’s still here, tethered to this existence.

He almost wishes Hirohito hated him just as much as the other Nations so that, he too, could be damned to an existence of waking up and immediately dying. That’s all the others do now, and it seems infinitely more peaceful than being kept alive for the sake of waiting to be injured, just to see where attacks on the country are happening.

The other Axis members have fallen. It’s just Japan now, Japan as the only aggressor. There have been talks about stopping the war, but he can barely listen to them. No one is in agreement. It makes him sick. He’s so tired. He’s so fucking tired.

All he does is waste away at this Kyoto residence. It’s worse than the 200-year isolation period. It’s somehow worse than when he regularly had to watch the Nation experiments too. Now everything is pointless and dull, and he can’t remember a time where some pain wasn’t continually plaguing him.

He stumbles back to his room. Aida dresses him. She’s careful around his wounds, but there are so many now it doesn’t matter. He ends up hurting either way.

8:10.

Japan is led outside. He feels hot and feverish, and the air is sticky.

Everyone is waiting for him, even the emperor with his entourage. It must be a war meeting—that’s why Japan’s coming, to spit out facts and figures so they can incessantly argue about what to do next. 

The people in front of him talk. Aida glances over her shoulder to look at him every now and then.

And at 8:16

Japan stumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 悪因悪果: you reap what you sow


	15. Miteinander

_17\. April 1945_

How funny, it is, that the events in Paris seem like a lifetime ago. It’s as if Tedus and the resistance members are a figment of his imagination. Francis is a bad nightmare. Antonio doesn’t actually exist.

His life in Germany is all that he knows now.

After he crossed the border, he eventually ran into some soldiers who knew what he was. They were in disbelief, not sure what to do besides cart him back to the capital.

Pain met him. Anger. His officials were _furious_. But the deed was already done, and by the time he arrived in Berlin, D-Day had been successful. His officials could do nothing more than take out their anger on him.

But Hitler, the crack-head, mess of a man that he is, eventually told them to stop, stop before he became corrupted. After all, he _is_ the Prussian Nation Avatar, representing the old Germany; the Germany Hitler wants to bring to fruition today. To destroy him is to wreck any hope of the future.

Or something like that.

Hitler is losing it.

No one here trusts Prussia. They shouldn’t, but it’s almost comical. What can he do? He’s not going to break anyone out from this underground base. In fact, he’s been obedient ever since arriving, which is a considerable improvement compared to how he acted at the beginning of the war.

That’s what got him sent to France in the first place, his brashness then.

But now he has to be cautious. He has to protect Germany and Austria.

They haven’t been allowed to talk to each other, though, and the three of them are always monitored, even when they’re alone in the room they share.

Sometimes just being in their presence is enough. Other times, it isn’t, and Prussia finds himself going crazy, desperate to talk about anything, even mundane shit.

They don’t even do that.

He wants to grab the two and demand things; ask Austria if he knew that day at the Berlin Olympics would lead to this; question Germany if it really was him those few months ago, the person who lost it when Prussia vomited from screaming so much. Because after that event, the experiments stopped, Hitler, of course, claiming it was his own decision.

Saying that shit about him representing the ‘Old Germany.’

If Germany is that person, Prussia wonders if he knows how much it means. He’s the boy who Prussia raised to respect authority without question, and now he’s finally standing up to it.

Germany has dramatically lost weight. His hair is thinner. His eyes are sunken in. The war is targeting his body and ripping it to shreds. Especially with the Berlin invasion, there’s a new injury on him every day.

He never sleeps. Well, all three of them never do. It’s almost a contest to see who will wake up thrashing from a nightmare first.

The first day Prussia was no longer being tortured; he was thrust into Germany and Austria’s room at night. He would have mistaken them for statues if they didn’t blink. It took a good moment for them to register that he was truly there too before they both frantically pulled him into a hug.

They all cram themselves into one bed every night. They have three, but what’s the point if someone is going to wake up screaming.

Sleeping is weird and uncomfortable, and every time Prussia lies down next to them, he wants to cry. Out of relief? Love? Exhaustion?

Everything is a confusing mess now.

At least it’s been a week since Austria has had his face fucked with. Hitler seems to have given up, on that and a lot of other things too.

According to exhausted, dead-inside-looking scientists Prussia overheard, Austria had to get new platelets inserted into his face every day. Dye was injected into his pupils multiple times, but that never worked. The color of his hair, at least, they altered successfully, but now that the dye has faded, it’s a disgusting washed out blond.

From the years of platelet injections and other messed-up attempts, Austria’s face is swollen and red. Being in a war has screwed up his ability to heal properly and left him an empty shell of a man.

But Prussia is also an empty shell, so who is he to talk?

Days are endless. Miserable. Prussia gets to watch Hitler break down in real time, though, which reaps him some satisfaction. But he also has to watch as the Soviets destroy Germany’s body.

It devastates him because he wants to help. He wants to save someone besides France, but the only way that can happen with Germany is if the war ends.

And it looks like the Soviets are going to forcefully accomplish that feat.

It’s terrifying. Prussia was hoping the Americans or British would get to the city first. Everyone was. They know there’s a chance those two wouldn’t be as ruthless.

But they’re not coming, and now the Soviets are here for revenge.

It’s almost over, right? That’s what Prussia keeps telling himself.

Yet somehow, that doesn’t feel like the case.

* * *

 

_28\. April 1945_

“My Fürher, the Soviets are only about a day away from overtaking the chancellery. If you escaped to Berchtesgaden now—”

“No.”

The room is dead silent.

Hitler has a glazed look. He and Prussia make eye contact for a brief moment while the officials in the room appear like they’re about to be sick.

“I’d rather die here.”

* * *

 

_30\. April 1945_

Yesterday, Hitler wrote a will.

Today, now around 3 PM, he’s poisoned his dog Blondi to test the cyanide tablets he has.

They work.

The Russians are only a few blocks away, and Hitler and Eva Braun are currently preparing for their joint suicide.

There’s a plan for succession.

There’s no plan, however, on what to do with the Nations.

Hitler’s right-hand men pushed him for an answer, but he had none. He has none. Absolutely no one knows what to do with Prussia, Austria, and Germany right now.

After all this time, after all the importance Hitler placed on Nations, they’re nothing more than an afterthought for him.

The three of them are sitting in their room. Well, Prussia and Austria are sitting. Germany is lying down in pain. He’s bleeding from multiple wounds right now while pus is coming out of some of his cuts.

“What if we tried to hold off for the Americans?” Austria blurts out abruptly, the first one of them to say absolutely anything since Prussia set foot here. His voice is raspy and sounds nothing like what he remembers.

“What?” His own voice cracks and sounds disgusting.

Austria’s eyes are wild. He glances at the door; then back at Prussia. “We can’t—We can’t let the Soviets take us. Surely—the Americans and British must be coming. We can fight back. We’ll hold off until they come, and then surrender to them.”

Germany starts hacking up a lung. Prussia’s head feels hazy. “Where would we go?”

“An abandoned building?” Austria’s voice breaks. “We can’t stay here.”

Germany keeps coughing. Prussia stares at his hands, having a headache.

“Do you really think they would let us go?”

Austria’s eyes fill with a fierce determination.

“Yes.”

 


	16. Human? Человек? 人間?

_8 July 1944_

France is supposed to be coming today.

It’s breakfast. The new company makes the table feel small, and there’s barely enough room to fit all of them. Wales made sure to steer Scotland to the seat the furthest away from Russia and China, so they’re at one end while those two are at the other. England is right smack in the middle, America and Canada on either of his sides.

He picks at his food, having no appetite. He didn’t sleep at all last night and feels exhausted and numb, the anxiety of seeing France eating up his stomach. He doesn’t know when he’s supposed to come. The Nation Advisors won’t tell him.

They’re also hovering in the background. After everyone calmed down from Russia’s freak-out yesterday, those people have been forced to watch their every move since.

It’s aggravating.

But after everything, England feels like he deserves it.

* * *

 

1 май 1945 года

 _（_ _1 May 1945_ _）_

He’s been thrown with a group of soldiers and told to wander around the fucking city until he senses the other Nations.

It’s a mess. Soviets are going wild, killing almost anything that moves. It’s not like the Nazis didn’t do the same in Russia, but it’s still awful to see innocent people cry out in pain. Get violently murdered. Be humiliated and raped and pissed on.

Russia’s head is pounding, but he disregards it and forces himself to be a machine. To search, and find, and kill.

Then capture.

* * *

 

 _1945_ _年_ _8_ _月_ _6_ _日_

Aida Makiko hears her bones creak as they make their way to the meeting room. She feels exhausted. To have the war end would be a dream. It’s already taken everything from her—her son, forced to be a kamikaze pilot; her husband, committing suicide for reasons she’ll never know. All she got was a letter of notice from the government. And her grandkids and daughter-in-law she’s had no contact with since she got this job.

Job. Is that what this is? She’s not being paid. Even better, she’s being blackmailed into staying here. Her options are to continue wasting away, serving this government, or kill herself. She’s almost certain her husband was offered the same ultimatum and chose the latter.

Wherever he went.

All her husband wanted to do was give a presentation to the emperor. He had designed a new theory to harness energy. It was going to benefit the country’s modernization efforts. His intentions were innocent, nothing to do with mass murdering other Asian races, and Makiko was proud. Maybe she shouldn’t have come with him to the presentation, but he insisted. _“You’re my wife. You supported me when I went overseas for college. You deserve to come.”_

So she did, and then during the presentation, the lady with the silent, young man in the back snapped. Screaming about ‘the demon’ next to her, lunging for the emperor, causing the young man to dive in front of him, getting shot as guards rushed to stop the woman.

After all this time, Makiko can’t bring herself to see Honda Kiku as the demon the previous woman claimed he was. All she sees is a sad, young man; someone just listening to orders. Lost. Hopeless. Isn’t that what they’ve all felt like since the Western world forcefully brought its wrath upon them?

_Honda is lagging behind, isn’t he?_

She turns around just in time to see him stumble.

* * *

 

_8 July 1944_

A miserable looking maid takes away all of their dishes, and everyone pushes back their seats, ready to find a spot in the room to sit and dully stare at the wall for a few hours.

So when France is shoved inside, England is unprepared.

* * *

 

_1 май 1945 года_

There, in an abandoned building near where they found Hitler’s bunker, Russia finally senses the other three’s presences.

A simultaneous feeling of dread and relief fills him.

* * *

 

 _1945_ _年_ _8_ _月_ _6_ _日_

Makiko hurries back to Honda. “What’s wrong?”

He looks at her, and then his face starts melting.

* * *

 

_8 July 1944_

It’s so silent that the sound of a pin dropping would be audible.

England feels his breath catch in his throat. He staggers forward. “Francis?”

The person that looks at him is emaciated. He’s practically bald and dressed in ratty clothing. But most of all, he seems like he has no idea where he is.

England blindly extends his hand.

As soon as he gets within an arm’s reach, France screams.

* * *

 

_1 май 1945 года_

“That building,” Russia chokes out, his eyes turning bright red, trying not to flinch from the others’ presences.

“We’ll call the tanks.”

* * *

 

 _1945_ _年_ _8_ _月_ _6_ _日_

A hideous screech erupts from Honda’s mouth that Makiko didn’t even know was possible to make.

Everyone turns around, and she almost throws up. Honda’s body is melting. That’s the only way to describe it. His skin just drips off like it’s liquid, and his one eye disintegrates as a pool of blood spills out of his abdomen.

Makiko feels herself going into shock. She stumbles backward as someone else shrieks. Another vomits. One person is able to maintain enough composure to ask what’s being attacked.

Honda opens his mouth, but blood pours out of it. He then emits another horrifying noise that causes one person to faint and even another to throw up.

Makiko realizes she’s crying.

* * *

 

_8 July 1944_

England panics and tries to grab France, but he exerts his presence and hurls a chair at him. England dodges. Both Canada and America try to help, but that only makes France scream even more.

England is hyperventilating by the time he finally touches him.

 _“Gilbert was right.”_ The statement is suffocating him. He grabs onto France, who’s sobbing and curled into a fetal position.

_“Gilbert was right.”_

“You’re safe, Francis,” he chokes out. “You’re safe now.”

“A-Arthur?”

_“Gilbert was right.”_

“You’re safe now.”

y̵̺̪̖̹̲̻oư͚͚͖̮’̻̝͉̬͜r̛͖͎̪̙̺̭̯e̸̩̘̗̯̳ș̨̯a͓̮͞fȩ͇͉̖̙n̶͓̫o̕w̤̠̻͍͇̳

y̻̦̭͔̼͍̥̩͡o̡͙̥̤u̧͍̭̼͚̙̯͙͉ͅ’̫̯͎̱͕̭r҉͏̗̹̝͓̗ȩ̟̭̦̲͎͉̪͞s̟̭͈̳͈̥̞a̸̤̟̝͚̦͟f̨̳̬̟͍̪̳e̷͚̲̺̩̤͔͙̲ṇ̡̮̘̕o̢͖̟̜͎̤w̶̢̩͉̞̭̖͈͇͇

y͏͖̟̮̖͈̟̹̼͎͎̦̝͖̪o҉͇̙͓̳͇̬̟̗͟ư̳̘̱͈̖͉̫̰̭̭͚̬͟’̦̫̘̞͉̙̼͍̩̗̺r͏̸̲̥̘̬̩̪̣͢e̢̨͈̦̲͓̲̼̬̱̹̯͍̖̹̕ş̵̸̰̟̼̗͓̝̝̣̯͘ͅa̗͇̪̪͜͝͠f͘͏̴͎͍͎̤̕̕e̢͉̰͕͔͙̠̘̹͉̫͓̜̕ͅn̵̟̫̤̘͍̺̗̼̭̫̕͝o̷̤̭̭̞͙̭͚͈w͡͏̠̯̫͍̘̲̟͓͙͍͢͞͞

* * *

 

_1 май 1945 года_

The tanks shoot missiles, and the building crumbles. The other two’s presences have cut out, but somehow Prussia is still clinging to life, like he always does. Russia scrambles to unearth him from the rubble. He wants to question him, wants to scream and ask why he’s made his life even more of a living hell, wants to know how Prussia is able to hold onto his humanity, to be anything other than a monster.

He exposes Prussia’s face, who’s bloody and dazed and half-dead.

Russia holds up his gun. He wants to ask so many things, wants to cry and sob.

But all he can get out is, “It’s over.”

Prussia smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (commission from wizardnem.tumblr.com)  
> [song i imagine that plays during this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mo59IyQbro)  
> [if this were a movie, the first song would fade out into this one as the credits rolled](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbCeyb9okac)
> 
> I wanted to finish this now all in one update. Sometimes you just get those urges, and I realized all the chapters would be relatively short
> 
> When I was 16, I had just finished my second OC novel and hit a severe bout of a writer’s slump. I didn’t know what to write. And at that point, I almost started AWH, but then I thought: ‘what’s the point? 
> 
> ‘Someone has probably already done this, and no one would even read it.’
> 
> Thank you for proving me wrong
> 
> Thank you to anyone who’s clicked on this or AWH or DFU. Thank you for commenting. Thank you for indulging me.
> 
> This is the last piece I’ll ever write for Hetalia, and most likely my last ever fanfiction. From now on, I want to put my effort into writing OC work again with the hopes of one day landing a publishing deal. I’m happy in what I’ve done these past two years, though
> 
> I never expected to get any feedback. I could have never dreamed I’d make so many friends and connections from a stupid fic about country anime men. When I watched the first episode of hetalia five years ago, I never thought that it’d influence my life this much, eventually even leading me to my career path
> 
> It’s funny how things work out
> 
> I’ll keep my hetalia blog going. I mean, I still like the show. But maybe I’ll let it fade into obscurity after a while; a nice natural death
> 
> That’s what I want this fic to have. I’m not doing any more spinoffs. It’s done. The story is complete. 
> 
> I know some characters got more focus than others. I know some history is still dodgy, and that some ships are better developed compared to other ships. I tried. I’m one person who has their favorites, as all do
> 
> I have a vivid memory of laying out the AWH fics to my brother in 11th grade. He asked me why don't I just write it, then. At the time, it was a ludicrous thought. I wonder what 17-year-old me would say now, hell, 15-year-old me. 
> 
> She’d probably ignore everything and question why the fuck there’s fruk. She hated fruk. Fruk was a goddamn notp. And what the hell is up with this ameripan? who gives a shit. Why is there not usuk as an endgame; what the hell? And very little spamano? And didn’t she like franada?
> 
> She always loved rochu, though. 
> 
> Maybe you’ll run into my writing later. As for now, thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> It’s truly been fun
> 
> I can look back now in twenty years and feel proud of myself for writing all of this

**Author's Note:**

> blog:[arewehumans](http://arewehumans.tumblr.com) (or) [lordsardine](http://lordsardine.tumblr.com)
> 
> [music for the au](http://arewehumans.tumblr.com/music)
> 
>    
> If you want to chat, you can call me neioo or Maddie :-)


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